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Book ..W (,7 

Gopyiight N? JIo_ 


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JOHN AND BETTY’S 
IRISH HISTORY VISIT 







THE 


HISTORY VISIT BOOKS 


BY 


MARGARET WILLIAMSON 


Cloth. Illustrated. Price of Each Volume, net, $1.25 ; 
postpaid, $1.37 


John and Betty’s English History Visit 
John and Betty’s Scotch History Visit 
John and Betty’s Irish History Visit 


LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 

BOSTON 






“ I LIKE THE ROUND TOWERS BETTER THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN 

Ireland.” — Page 84. 


WM 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 
IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


BY 

MARGARET WILLIAMSON 

AUTHOR OF “JOHN AND BETTY’S ENGLISH HISTORY VISIT” AND 
“JOHN AND BETTY’S SCOTCH HISTORY VISIT” 


ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS 




BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 


Published, April, 1914 


Tz<, 

Ml Lij 

vTo 


Copyright, 1914, by Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


All Rights Reserved 


John and Betty’s Irish History Visit 


Horwoob^ress 
Berwick & ‘smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass. 

U. S. A. 


APR -8 1914 

P' /. A s~ 

©CI.A371297 





FOREWORD 


For the benefit of those who first become ac- 
quainted with John and Betty and their friends 
during their “ Irish History Visit,’ ’ it may be 
well to explain how they came to make the trip 
in the way they did. 

Several years earlier, John and Betty’s 
mother was puzzling over the most delightful 
plan for her children’s summer vacation. She 
then happened to remember certain tedious days 
when she herself had pored over school his- 
tories with their monotonous pages of facts and 
dates; she had always wished that she could 
travel in the countries where famous kings and 
peoples had lived, and fought their long suc- 
cession of battles. To become familiar with 
backgrounds, even as they appear to-day, would 
surely make it vastly easier to remember the 
whys and wherefores of events. 

Suddenly she wondered whether John and 
Betty would like to pass their summer in trav- 
eling, in visiting a country’s historic spots and 
thus getting its story fixed in their minds. 
John hailed her plan with shouts of approval, 
and Betty began that very evening to make lists 
of the places she particularly wanted to see. 

5 


6 


FOREWORD 


Thus it was that John and Betty spent their 
holidays in England. Their mother being un- 
able to leave home, the children made the jour- 
ney in charge of friends who saw them safely 
in care of Mrs. Pitt, a Scotch lady and an old 
friend, who had long lived in England. With 
her, and her son and daughter, Philip and Bar- 
bara, John and Betty saw London and its vi- 
cinity, the Shakespeare country, one or two 
lovely cathedral towns, Robin Hood’s Sher- 
wood Forest, and a glimpse of southern Devon- 
shire. 

It was not surprising that they should want 
to see Scotland, and that another trip should 
be arranged with Mrs. Pitt, Philip, and Bar- 
bara. Mrs. Pitt, of course, enjoyed showing 
them her native Scotland, and she filled the 
days so full that another three months flew 
by. Edinburgh was explored, and other fine 
old towns; excursions were made through the 
lakes, along the Caledonian Canal, to castles 
and quaint towns, and far north to the wild 
Isle of Skye; they saw Walter Scott’s home 
and the scenes of many of his poems and 
Waverley novels. 

Before the Scotch summer was over, Mrs. Pitt 
had promised to take her party to Ireland, add- 
ing an “ Irish History Visit ” to the “ Eng- 
lish ” and the “ Scotch ” trips. Although fa- 
miliar in many respects, they yet found Ireland 


FOREWORD 


7 


very individual. It is less familiar to tourists, 
and one feels a bit of an explorer in some dis- 
tant hamlets of the west country. One hears 
wonderful tales of Ireland in the days when 
both England and Scotland were still barbaric ; 
of its good saints and cultured priests, its edu- 
cation, religion, and picturesque civilization. 
One listens to tales of strange happenings and 
of unearthly creatures, ghosts, banshees, spir- 
its, and fairies. To the very day on which our 
party left Ireland, they hoped to spy a lepre- 
haun, or fairy cobbler, mending a tiny shoe un- 
der a clump of shamrock. The children never 
saw him, but perhaps you may, if your eyes 
are very sharp and your attention never flags. 
For, in Ireland, a fairy is always just around 
the corner. 

Margaret Williamson. 

West Newton, Mass., 

Januai'y 1, 1914. 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 


The First Day in Ireland . 

In Dublin ...... 

A Trip to ITowth 

More About Dublin .... 
Motoring to Drogheda and the 

Boyne Valley 

In County Wicklow .... 
Between Two Imperial Hotels 
Seeing Cork and Blarney Castle . 
Seeing Youghal and the River 

Blackwater 

In the Showery South of Ireland . 

Seeing Killarney 

From Lonely Valentia to Busy 

Limerick 

A Trio of Castles 

Athlone, “ The Deserted Village,” 

and Galway 

In the Far West 

In the “ Gentle Country,” with 
“ The Good People ” . 

Traveling Towards the North . 

The Far North and Its Legends . 
In and Near Belfast .... 
Getting Acquainted with St. Pat- 
rick 


PAGE 

13 

21 

35 

46 

59 

75 

88 

102 

114 

128 

141 

156 

170 

183 

198 

212 

225 

238 

255 


269 



/ 






ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ I LIKE THE ROUND TOWERS BETTER THAN ANYTHING 

else in Ireland ” (Page 84) . . . Frontispiece ^ 

FACING 

PAGE 

They took an outside-car back to the station . 18 v 

V 

“ Trinity College has always played a large part 

in political affairs ” 26 v 

“ They fought all along the route from Clontarf 

AS FAR INTO THE PRESENT CITY AS SACKVILLE 

Street” 36 

The polite regions of Fitzwilliam and Merrion 
Squares, where at least the doorplates receive 

A BRIGHTER POLISH 58 

John found the fascinating clay-pipe factory . 66 ^ 

Under two ancient Saxon arches . . . . 80 

“ Cashel was the home of the ancient kings of 

Munster ” 94^ 

“ It’s convenient when it rains, but it is difficult 



TO STAY IN, ESPECIALLY GOING UP HILL ” . . . 106 

“ SHURE, V HEV YEZ NEVER HEARD A PERSON TALK, 



11 


12 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 


“ I WANTED TO SEE MYRTLE GROVE ALMOST MORE THAN 

ANYTHING ELSE ” 

122 '' 

Dropped down in any little ravine, or overhang- 
ing A RUSHING STREAM, THESE THATCHED MUD HUTS 

134 • 

And, of course, they could not omit Muckross 
Abbey • •«••••••• 

150 

The platform at Farranfore station 

156 

Here was a village to creep into one’s heart . 

166 

“ The only moated grange in Ireland,” said Betty. 

“ Doesn’t that sound like a book ? ” . 

170 

“ Leap has the ghosts, but we have the moat ” . 

174 v 

“It’s very dark and big, but it’s a real castle, 
isn’t it ? ” 

190 

And yet, the village had its great day when the 
King and Queen went up that quarry road . 

200 

Drumcliff, with its Celtic cross .... 

220 - 

Bishopsgate has curious insignia carved over the 

DOORS, AND THE KEYSTONE OF THE ARCH IS A MAN’S 

HEAD 

232 

Every one sits in this chair and silently makes 

HIS WISH 

242 

The little town itself has great charms 

256 ^ 

Betty found a clump of tiny shamrock in the very 

shadow of St. Patrick’s tomb .... 

276 V 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 
IRISH HISTORY VISIT 



JOHN AND BETTY’S IRISH 
HISTORY VISIT 

CHAPTER ONE 

THE FIRST DAY IN IRELAND 

“When the glass is up to thirty, 

Be sure the weather will be dirty. 

When the glass is high, oh, very ! 

There’ll be rain in Cork and Kerry. 

When the glass is low, 0 Lork ! 

There’ll be rain in Kerry and Cork ! 99 

Of course every one expected that it would 
rain. The gray, chilly morning was no sur- 
prise. When the great ocean liner stopped just 
outside Queenstown Harbor, the sea was run- 
ning so high as to tumble the tender about in 
an alarming manner ; and when the passengers 
stood upon its slippery deck, surrounded by 
piles of trunks, they could see little of Ireland. 
A heavy mist hung low over high bluffs topped 
by green-checkered fields and tiny white farm- 
houses. 

John jerked his cap down over his eyes and 
Betty was holding on her hat with both hands. 

“ I keep seeing something bright yellow, all 
13 


14 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

up and down the cliffs,’ ’ she said. “ What is 
it? Oh, perhaps it’s gorse! Do you think 
so?” 

“ Yes, probably. I’ve heard it’s very beauti- 
ful in the early spring. See, what masses of it 
there are! ” exclaimed Betty’s mother. 

They went into the stuffy cabin and peered 
through cloudy window-panes at Spanish Cove, 
an inner harbor into which Francis Drake ran 
one of his ships to evade the pursuing Armada. 

“ Hello! Was that outfit over here, too? ” 
asked John. 

They had scarcely time to realize that they 
were in huge Queenstown Harbor, “ capable of 
sheltering Great Britain’s entire navy,” when 
the pier was sighted with the steep town piled 
behind. 

On the pier were women with dark shawls 
drawn protectingly over their heads and across 
their mouths; close by were shaggy donkeys 
hitched to dilapidated carts, and beyond, out- 
side-cars, with their shouting, gesticulating 
drivers. Betty and her brother had all along 
been feeling their superior knowledge of for- 
eign affairs, circumstances having kept their 
mother in America while they had visited both 
England and Scotland; but neither John nor 
Betty had ever seen a real jaunting-car, at least 
not on its native soil. 

John wanted to ride on one as soon as they 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i5 


and their luggage had escaped the custom offi- 
cial, but his mother gently insisted upon taking 
the waiting train for Cork. 

“ You know we must push on to Dublin this 
afternoon,” she said; “Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, 
and Philip hope to find us there when they ar- 
rive from England to-night.” 

It is only a half-hour’s ride to Cork, through 
pleasant farming country very much like Eng- 
land. The train often skirts the river Lee, 
near which are country houses, villas, and an 
occasional castle. Legend says that a lady built 
the castle at Monkstown at the cost of one 
groat, accomplishing this by supplying the 
workmen with food and other necessaries which 
she bought at wholesale. When she balanced 
her accounts her profit had paid all expenses 
except fourpence. Thus she pleased her ab- 
sent lord, who loved economy. 

“ Should think he’d have kept on going to 
war! ” chuckled John. 

Another castle, called Blackrock, is quite 
modern, though the spot is claimed to be that 
from which William Penn set out for America. 

Upon leaving the station at Cork they saw 
more shawled women, donkey-carts, and out- 
side-cars; a few beggars followed them, and 
barefooted boys tried to sell them newspapers. 
Ignoring them all, they at last succeeded in 
pushing their way to a clanging tramcar. 


1 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

The tram’s speed was by no means what 
might have been expected from the great noise 
of its gong. Cork is a city, but hardly in the 
American sense of the word. There no one 
hurries; all things move in leisurely fashion, 
except, perhaps, a jaunting-car, here and there, 
whose driver and passenger boisterously urge 
the horse to high speed because they love jolt- 
ing over rough stones and lurching around 
corners. Every one seems to have time to loiter 
on the bridges and watch the boats ; to stroll 
along the quays by the Lee ; to shop in Patrick 
Street, or, at least, to examine the contents of 
its shop windows. 

The morning’s mist had vanished and the sun 
shone upon Cork and the hills which encircle 
it — hills showing the first green of spring. 
Even the beggars appeared contented in their 
sunny corners. Everything seemed to smile 
upon John and Betty, and their mother, speak- 
ing those words of Irish welcome, Cead-mile- 
fdilte: a hundred thousand welcomes. 

‘ 6 I wonder what places we go through on our 
way,” remarked Betty, as they were lunching 
at the Imperial Hotel. 

“ I really don’t know,” her mother con- 
fessed, laughing. “ I’m like that person in 
Jane Barlow’s rhyme: 

“‘“An’ there,” sez I to meself, “we’re goin’ wherever 
we go, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


17 

But where we’ll be whin we git there, it’s never a 
know I’ll know.” ’ ” 

“ Except Dublin,” said John; “ you know 
we’ll be there at seven o’clock.” 

“ Perhaps; but every one says that Irish 
trains are horribly uncertain ! ’ ’ 

They took an outside-car back to the station, 
John occupying one of the side seats while 
Betty and her mother had the other. 

“ It’s so hard to get on! ” complained 
Betty’s mother, “ and even harder to stay on 
afterwards. J ohn, do tell him to drive slowly ! 
Goodness! the seat swings, doesn’t it? ” 

Betty and her mother were frantically cling- 
ing to the low rail of the driver’s seat, but 
John’s bearing was altogether admirable. 
Scorning to steady himself, he sat bolt upright, 
with arms folded and an expression of vast 
satisfaction on his face. 

“ Should think I’d done it all my life! ” he 
cried. “ Say, Mother, isn’t it bully? ” 

“ I feel like curling my feet up under me 
for fear somebody’ll grab them,” exclaimed 
Betty. 

When they reached the station, John and 
Betty jumped to the ground, and their mother, 
groping about for the step, finally managed to 
get her heel upon it, and so slide down. Thus 
their first jaunting-car drive ended without 
mishap. 


1 8 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

The railroad from Cork to Dublin runs for 
many miles between high banks, disappoint- 
ing travelers who want to see the country. The 
banks disappear sometimes, however, disclos- 
ing green fields, square potato patches, and 
overgrown hedges, behind which hide white- 
washed cottages. 

4 4 They’ve only one window and a door,” ob- 
served John, as the train hurried past two or 
three huddled cottages. 44 See, Betty, how the 
doors are cut in two. Folks leave the bottom 
part closed.” 

44 Why? ” 

44 Probably to keep out the livestock,” sug- 
gested their mother. 

4 4 Do animals go in their houses ? ’ 9 

44 I should say they did! Saw a pig and a 
lot of chickens walking out of one just a little 
way back! ” this from John. 

44 That’s true enough. Shall I tell you chil- 
dren the German tourist’s exaggerated account 
of what he saw come out of a typical hut of the 
west country, between six and nine o’clock in 
the morning? It was something like this : three 
geese, eight goslings, six hens, fifteen chickens, 
two pigs, two cows, two barefooted girls, one 
man leading a horse, three small children with 
school bags, and one woman leading a donkey 
loaded with peat-baskets.” 

44 Mother! I’m sure you made that up! ” 





They took an outside-car back to the station. Page 17. 





























































•9 

















IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


19 


“ No, indeed; but, of course, it never hap- 
pens nowadays.’ ’ 

After stopping at two junctions, Marybor- 
ough and Portarlington, they came to Kildare, 
where they saw their first round tower among 
the trees. 

“ Oh, I love it; it’s so tall and straight,” said 
Betty. 

It is not known exactly what these towers 
were used for, because they were built so very 
long ago. Some people think the Druids used 
them in a religious way ; some believe they were 
lookouts, or places of refuge in times of war. 
The Irish have many stories about their being 
built in a single night by the fairies. There are 
many round towers in Ireland, and one or two 
have still the original pointed top, which the one 
at Kildare has lost. 

Here John began to chant dramatically the 
following verse, found in the guide-book: 

“‘“Who killed Kildare? who dared Kildare to kill? 

I killed Kildare ; and dare kill whom I will .” 1 ” 

“ Good for him, whoever he was ! ” 

A gentleman in their compartment of the 
train told Betty about St. Brigit, one of Ire- 
land’s many famous saints, who founded a nun- 
nery at Kildare in 484. 

4 1 She was a follower of the great St. Patrick, 
you know. Here her nuns started an 4 inextin- 


20 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


guiskable fire/ which was kept burning for 
eight hundred years. You’ve heard that Ire- 
land has many holy wells where people go to 
drink when they are sick? Some people think 
that good St. Brigit now lives in these wells, 
helping to cure people, and appearing as 4 a 
very civil little fish, very pleasant, wagging its 
tail ’! ” 

“ Look out of the window, John!” inter- 
rupted his mother, hastily consulting her guide- 
book. “ This huge field here — it has 5000 acres 
— must be what they call the Curragh. It has 
seen military camps and battles, but now it’s 
a race-course, one of the finest in the whole 
Kingdom. My, what turf for the horses ! ’ ’ 

“ When do they race? Could we go? 99 de- 
manded her son excitedly. 

His mother did not know, but perhaps they 
could find out ; they would see. 

Soon they began to collect their luggage, for 
they were nearing Dublin. 

“ Well,” said Betty, walking down the plat- 
form, past a long line of outside-cars, 4 4 of 
course, I knew there were jaunting-cars — I’ve 
seen one at the Hippodrome in New York — but 
I didn’t think there were so many in Ireland, 

or Oh, there’s Barbara! They got here 

before we did ! ” 


CHAPTER TWO 


IN DUBLIN 

u The seat of this city is of all sides pleasant, com- 
fortable, and wholesome: if you would traverse hills, they 
are not far off; if champaign ground, it lieth of all parts; 
if you be delighted with fresh water, the famous river 
called the Liffey runneth fast by; if you will take a view 
of the sea, it is at hand.” 

The first days of their stay at the big house 
in Stephen’s Green were miserably cold and 
rainy. When Betty read the above passage in 
an old book, she was inclined to believe that too 
much was claimed for Dublin; and, especially, 
she wanted to know what “ champaign ” 
meant. 

After John and his sister had seen their 
mother off for England and the Continent, 
where she was to join friends, there was little 
for them to do except unpack, chatter with 
Philip and Barbara, or read. Betty was glad 
of the opportunity to study some of the books 
in the library. 

“ Come here, John,” she once called, brush- 
ing a lock of hair from her face. “ You must 
listen to some of these things I’ve found out. 


21 


22 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

4 First of all, let me tell you’, — that’s how Miss 
Hall always begins at school, you know — that 
Dublin has a Gaelic name, the name the real 
Irish people gave it. They used to spell it 
D-u-b-h-l-i-n-n, and it means 4 the black pool.’ 
That’s because this city is built over a great 
big peat bog, like those we saw on the Isle of 
Skye last summer, John; and peat makes water 
brown, you know. Perhaps if it’s very peaty, 
the water would be almost black. There was a 
ford over the Liffey River here, too, but it was 
so muddy that they threw down a lot of wicker 
hurdles (What are they? Sticks?); then they 
called it 4 the town of the hurdle ford. ’ There ’s 
another Gaelic name for that. See it? But this 
was all very, very long ago, John, even before 
St. Patrick came.” 

Betty was turning to another page, marked 
by her finger, when John demanded, 44 Yes, but 
how long ago? Is Dublin old — awfully old — 
like London and Edinburgh? ” 

44 I just guess it is! The book says it was 
here in 150 a. d., and this is how they know it. 
4 Conn of the Hundred Battles ’ had been 

beaten by some other king and ” 

4 4 Gee ! a hundred ! ’ ’ 

Overlooking the interruption, Betty went tri- 
umphantly on. 4 4 4 King Conn of the Hundred 
Battles,’ ” she repeated, 44 had to share Ire- 
land, so he drew a straight line from the At- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


23 


lantic Ocean, over on the west, to the High 
Street, in Dublin; and that’s how we can tell 
there was a Dublin then.” 

“ What happened next? Oh, let me see, 
Betty! You’ve had the book forever! ” 

“ Brian Boru came next, didn’t he? ” in- 
quired his sister, handing it over a bit unwill- 
ingly. 

“ Not until those Danes had been here. They 
kept coming over and grabbing things every- 
where, but Brian Boru finally whipped ’em 
somewhere — at a place called Clontarf, I think. 
You bet they never came again! They must 
have been the ones who tied matches to some 
swallows’ tails when they wanted to burn the 
thatched roofs at Dublin. Wonder how they 
caught enough ! ’ ’ 

“ John!” cried prim little Barbara, who had 
come into the room; “ what do you mean? 
Fancy! Matches weren’t invented then. No- 
body ever used them till — well, just this minute 
I forget the date, but we ’ve had it in school. ’ ’ 
Betty snatched the book, her eyes snapping. 
“ It does say that some early invaders had 
them,” she retorted. “ English people never 
will admit that Ireland had anything before 
they did ! You aren’t fair at all, Barbara ! ” 
Their little disagreement was instantly for- 
gotten, however, for Mrs. Pitt entered, wearing 
her hat and coat and pulling on her gloves. 


24 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ It’s going to be a fine afternoon,” she 
announced jubilantly. “ Yes, we’ll go out 
immediately, before the sun has a chance 
to vanish again. Fetch me my umbrella, 
Philip. Hurry, Barbara; you’ll keep us 
waiting. ’ ’ 

The paths in Stephen’s Green Park were still 
wet, but the grass and trees showed a dainty, 
fresh green, babies were out with their nurses, 
and the ducks in the pretty pools were energetic 
and cheerful. They crossed the park by the 
diagonal path and entered Grafton Street, Dub- 
lin’s Regent Street, now packed with busy 
shoppers, outside-cars, private carriages and 
motor-cars. The long line of fashionable shops 
at last ends where Grafton Street merges into 
College Green, the starting place of many tram 
lines. Just opposite is stately Parliament 
House, a bank until Home Rule, the Irishman’s 
dream, shall restore it to its original use. To 
the right is Trinity College. 

“ Now, where ’ve I bumped into him before? 
Sure I’ve knocked against a fellow with a fore- 
head like that ! Teachers always tell you to be 
sure and notice his forehead ’specially. 
Who — ? Oh, I know! It’s ‘ old Noll,’ of 
course! Wrote ‘ The Deserted Village,’ — old 
guy back from the wars, and all the rest of the 
bunch! ” John doffed his cap, bowing low be- 
fore the statue of Oliver Goldsmith, near the 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


25 

entrance of the college which is now so proud of 
him. 

They went through a broad gateway under 
which are the familiar college notices and bul- 
letins, and came into a large, graveled court, 
closed in by gray buildings. The place seemed 
almost deserted; a professor in a black gown 
mounted a distant flight of steps; over there 
rode a student on his bicycle ; here one 
caught sounds of voices from a classroom; in 
the distance was the rumble of the city 
streets. 

“ Trinity College has always played a large 
part in political affairs/ ’ said Mrs. Pitt; 4 4 per- 
haps because it is situated in the midst of the 
city. It is altogether different from Oxford and 
Cambridge, with their quiet rivers and shel- 
tered courts. 

“ Before Trinity College was founded, a 
Franciscan monastery stood here,” Mrs. Pitt 
went on, as they walked towards the Examina- 
tion Hall; “ so, you see, the place has long been 
famous for learning. It is said that when 
Queen Elizabeth desired to establish an Irish 
professorship at Trinity College, Lord Bur- 
leigh protested : ‘ What ! encourage a language 
more nearly allied to canine barking than to the 
articulation human! ’ Nevertheless, for a long 
time the Irish tongue was spoken in the class- 
rooms. Queen Elizabeth wished Trinity to be 


2 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

merely the beginning of an Irish university, 
but no other colleges have been added from her 
day to ours.” 

A solemn caretaker led them about the Exam- 
ination Hall, with its portraits of college celeb- 
rities, Dean Swift, Edmund Burke, and Queen 
Elizabeth herself among them. 

“ Yez may think it odd, mum,” he said, “ but 
them as sits near the picter o’ Queen Elizabeth 
there has never no success with the examina- 
tions at all.” 

“ I do believe that pointed chin of hers, and 
the funny ruff, and those sharp little eyes would 
make me forget all I ever knew,” reflected 
Betty. 

“ Oliver Goldsmith, as a poor boy, is said 
to have waited on table here,” said Mrs. Pitt, 
standing in the Dining Hall, with its ancient 
wainscoting, and its quaint wooden pulpit, 
which the boys call the 4 4 Egg Cup. ’ ’ 

“ What’s the ‘ Egg Cup ’ for? ” 

“ One of the students always stands there to 
read a Latin grace before dinner, Betty.” 

Of course, they saw the famous library, which 
is two hundred and forty feet long, containing 
three hundred thousand books, valuable manu- 
scripts and autographs, and the busts of cele- 
brated men. 

“ There’s only one thing that you need to 
see,” said Mrs. Pitt — “ the Book of Kells, most 



“Trinity College has always played a large part in 
political affairs.” — Page 25. 

























































IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


27 

wonderful of all ancient illuminated books. 
Here it is.” 

As they bent over the beautiful pages of the 
open book, one of which the authorities turn 
each day, she told them that the best of this 
illuminating was done by the monks who lived 
between the ninth and twelfth centuries. There 
were no other books then, for it was before the 
time of printing; books such as this were so 
costly that they were only to he found in the 
libraries of monasteries, of kings, or of great 
chiefs, and were sometimes even used as kings’ 
ransoms. The design, workmanship, and color 
of this Book of Kells are unsurpassed; it may 
have taken a monk several months to paint each 
one of its pages. 

“ What’s it about! ” asked Betty, drawing 
the green cloth cover back over the glass 
case. 

“ It’s the four Gospels, written in Latin,” 
replied Mrs. Pitt. 

As they retraced their steps towards the 
gateway, John remarked that he had not no- 
ticed any dormitories or lecture-rooms. 

‘ ‘ I knew a chap who lived down near Cork, ’ ’ 
said Philip ; ‘ ‘ met him two years ago when we 
went to Ostend, Mother. He said he did all 
his studying at home, and only came up to Dub- 
lin at examination times.” 

“ Cinch! Don’t think I’d like it, though. 


28 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Bather be with the fellows! Can they do that, 
Mrs. Pitt, — on the level? ” 

“ Yes, Trinity admits non-resident students 
who are not required to attend lectures ; this ex- 
plains the presence of so few lecture-rooms and 
dormitories. Now I want my tea, and I re- 
member a nice shop near here.” 

While they rested and drank their tea, Mrs. 
Pitt told them stories of one of the former 
professors of Trinity, Doctor “ Jacky ” Bar- 
rett, a most curious old character. 

“ He was a learned Hebrew scholar and so 
devoted to the College and to his duties there 
that, it is said, he seldom went outside the gates. 
On one famous occasion he saw some sheep in 
a field, and, upon being told what they were, 
was much excited at seeing ‘ live mutton . 9 But 
what I like best is his habit of prefacing all his 
remarks with the question, ‘ Do you see me 
now? 9 A certain Mr. LeFanu, who was a stu- 
dent here seventy-five years ago, gives some de- 
lightful anecdotes of Doctor Barrett in a book 
which I have with me. I’ll read you one little 
paragraph. This illustrates his miserly habits : 

“ 1 He (Doctor Barrett) dined at Commons; 
his only other meal was his breakfast, consist- 
ing of a penny loaf and a halfpennyworth of 
milk. Every morning he handed a halfpenny 
to the old woman who looked after his rooms, 
and sent her out to buy the milk. One frosty 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


29 


morning she slipped, fell, and broke her leg. 
She was taken to a hospital, and for once Bar- 
rett ventured beyond the College precincts and 
went to see her. “ Well, Mary,” he said to her, 
“ do you see me now, I suppose the jug is 
broken, but where is the halfpenny? ” ’ ” 

Amid the laughter which follower, Mrs. Pitt 
assured them that they should read that book. 

“ Mr. LeFanu also describes the 4 Charleys/ 
or city watchmen, of those days,” she said. 
“ They wore long, gray coats with capes, low- 
crowned hats, and were armed with sharp- 
pointed pikes; the < Charleys ’ were usually 
feeble and old, and the college boys delighted 
to play tricks on them, to rob them of the 
rattles they carried, or, when caught asleep, 
to turn them face to the ground in their sentry- 
boxes. It was good sport. But we must go 
if we’re to see anything more this afternoon! ” 

In the center of College Green stands an 
equestrian statue of King William III. Mrs. 
Pitt and the others dodged the trams and 
paused for a moment, looking up at it. 

“ The Trinity boys tormented the poor king 
horribly,” observed Mrs. Pitt; “ he afforded 
them almost as much enjoyment as the old 
‘ Charleys.’ The statue was made by Grinling 
Gibbons, who did so much wood-carving, you 
remember, and it was erected in 1701, when this 
king was in high favor with the political party 


30 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

just then in power. Once every year there was 
a parade around the statue ; muskets were fired, 
and there were grand celebrations. The J acob- 
ites, being still faithful to the cause of the 
Stuart kings, were obliged to retaliate by secret 
attacks, under cover of darkness. The Trinity 

boys were most active; they My word! 

That motor almost touched you, Barbara ! Take 
care ! ’ ’ 

“ What did the Trinity fellows do, Mrs. 
Pitt? ” persisted John, chuckling in anticipa- 
tion. 

“ Well, they pretended to be angry because 
the statue turns its back to their college. They 
occasionally daubed it all over with mud, or 
carried away its sword, or set a second man up 
behind King William, a man made of straw.” 

John was immensely pleased by these stories, 
and reminded Mrs. Pitt of how the Harvard 
boys had painted red old John Harvard’s statue 
at Cambridge, Massachusetts. 

“ I saw it! ” he cried, “ and it was cork- 
ing! ” But Betty quite took the wind out of 
his sails by insisting that it had happened long 
before J ohn was born. 

And so they went on, down a narrow street 
which led to the southern bank of the river. 
Little shipping is now seen in this part of the 
Liffey, and people only frequent the quays 
when they want a pleasant walk or when they 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


3i 


have business at the dingy shops where second- 
hand books, prints, and curios are to be found. 
Both hanks of the river are lined with tall 
houses, often possessing beautiful doorways, 
which suggest their once aristocratic occu- 
pants ; the dark river is crossed by picturesque 
bridges, and the whole view is dominated by 
the huge dome of the Four Courts, where the 
King’s laws are enforced. To walk there at 
sunset is delightful. 

“ This is all famous ground, of course,” said 
Mrs. Pitt. “ You’ve probably guessed as much, 
Betty. Not far from Parliament Street here, 
was once Smock Alley, where David Garrick, 
the great actor, played; such crowds went to 
his theater during one period of hot weather 
that a terrible epidemic afterwards raged, the 
4 Garrick fever,’ they called it. This next quay, 
Merchant ’s, is the oldest of them all. Here was 
that first bridge over the river, the one made 
of hurdles, which I heard Betty talking about 
this morning. There was a terrible slaughter 
of the fleeing Norsemen here, those who tried 
to escape after the battle of Clontarf. For a 
long time this bridge was the only one across 
the Liffey; it fell in the fourteenth century be- 
cause it was overloaded with many houses and 
shops, just as was old London Bridge.” 

Crossing the river by Queen’s Bridge, they 
made their way through Queen and Blackhall 


32 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Streets to the old King’s Hospital of Oxman- 
town, founded by Charles II., and dubbed Blue- 
coat School by Dubliners. 

“ Is it one of those schools that they call a 
hospital? ” asked Betty, remembering the 
Heriot Hospital she had visited in Edinburgh. 

“ Yes, and the oldest public school in Ireland. 
This building, in spite of its thick walls and 
high windows, which give it an ancient appear- 
ance, is comparatively new, having been built 
only about two hundred years ago. The orig- 
inal house stood near by, and it was put to some 
strange uses. A great Irish general, Tyrcon- 
nel, dismissed the boys and turned the school 
into another kind of hospital for wounded 
French soldiers from the Jacobite army; once 
the pupils were sent to the attic while a par- 
liament met on the ground floor. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Pitt’s ring was answered by a startled 
servant ; the head master soon came, in a 
shabby black gown and a mortar-board cap with 
worn edges. He was delighted at the oppor- 
tunity of showing Americans the old school, 
and his stout, talkative wife, and rude, forward 
child were more than pleased to follow on, add- 
ing to the master’s explanations. It was not 
often that strangers from a distance were seen 
within the gloomy walls. 

“ Oh, yes,” said the master’s wife effusively, 
in answer to Betty’s question, “ they still have 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


33 


blue coats; yes, indeed, my dear! And they 
have yellow collars and cuffs, and beautiful 
brass buttons, just like those they had in King 
Charles’s time. But now the boys only wear 
the uniforms on Sundays; we couldn’t afford 
them on week-days. ’ ’ 

Certainly the few boys they met wore most 
ordinary clothes, as they went about the high- 
studded corridors and the dingy, damp class- 
rooms, with their battered forms. 

With a gleam of enthusiasm the head master 
opened the chapel door. “ We’ve a fine paint- 
ing here,” said he; “ the 1 Resurrection,’ be- 
hind the altar there. ’Twas done by one of our 
old boys. We’re proud of that. Now here’s 
the dining-hall. King Charles’s arms are over 
the fireplace, and they say that some of the por- 
traits are good; but you can’t live on them, as 
you know, and I’ve little enough to spend for 
food! ” 

They all shuddered a bit at the cheerless 
room, with its long tables covered with 
soiled linen; it was a relief to be ushered into 
an over-furnished drawing-room, where the 
head master’s wife presented each of the la- 
dies with a gilt button with the words: THE 
KING’S HOSPITAL, OXMANTOWN, 1670. 
After this she good-naturedly showed them the 
boys’ playground, the only remaining part of 
old Oxmantown Green. 


34 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


“ When Little John, one of Robin Hood’s 
band, came in disguise to Dublin, my husband 
says he stood near yonder Merchant’s Quay, a 
good mile away, and shot an arrow which fell 
here.” 

When they were finally in the street again, 
out of hearing of the lonely schoolmaster and 
his over-merry wife, John tossed up his cap 
and, as he recaptured it, cried : 

‘ ‘ What a school ! ’ ’ 

“ Well,” put in Betty, “ when you remember 
that Little John almost shot it, you ought to 
feel a good deal happier ! ’ ’ 


CHAPTER THREE 


A TEIP TO HOWTH 

“ This one goes to Dolphin’s Barn,” said 
Betty. 4 4 What an adorable name ! ’ 9 
4 4 Oh, who wants to see old barns and things, 
Betty! ” cried John. 44 I vote for a tram that 
goes all through the city, everywhere that there 
are crowds, and motors, and jaunting-cars with 

their bully jarveys, and How’d Clondalkin 

do, Mrs. Pitt! No! Oh, well, a fellow always 
has a corking view from a tram, anyhow! ” 
Nothing can possibly be as much fun as rid- 
ing on the top of British tramcars; at least, 
this was John and Betty’s opinion, and they 
had had considerable experience. But, stand- 
ing by the Nelson Pillar, in Sackville Street, 
Dublin, it is difficult to decide upon the best 
route for a ride. There are so many trams, going 
in so many different directions and having such 
wonderfully fascinating signs — Donnybrook, 
Ringsend, Sandymount, Leixlip. How could 
people direct from the United States know 
which to select! 

Usually Mrs. Pitt chose the tram for them, 
however. One day she led them to that marked 

35 


3 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Clontarf and Howth, which at first took them 
through the city, as John had wished, giving 
them glimpses into the second-story windows 
of shops and a view of the hurrying people 
about Amiens Street railway station, where 
onqe stood the birthplace of the Irish novelist, 
Lever. The tram crossed a canal and made its 
way through long streets of ugly workmen’s 
houses, which before long gave place to the 
villas and big bathing establishments bordering 
the bay. There were occasional wide gateways, 
too, with grass-grown drives beyond. Dublin 
gentlemen in former times built country houses 
here, the one belonging to Lord Charlemont 
having been famous for its pillars, poplin hang- 
ings, long mirrors, and inlaid floors. 

There are still green fields and slopes at 
Clontarf, where, as Mrs. Pitt reminded them, 
the great battle and defeat of the Danes took 
place in 1014. 

“ They fought all along the route we have 
come,” she told them, “ from Clontarf as far 
into the present city as Sackville Street itself. 
The Irish had been encamped where Phoenix 
Park now is, but the Danes came ashore from 
their huge ships, with the carved prows, which 
had boldly sailed straight into Dublin Bay. 
The Danes wore steel armor and bright plumes, 
and carried swords and spears; above their 
heads floated the flag made for their leader, 




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“ They fought all along the route from Clontarf as far into 

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IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


37 


Earl Sigurd, by his witch-mother, who had 
cunningly sewed upon it a huge black raven, 
with wings which flapped in the wind. 4 Take 
it, my son, into all thy battles,’ she had said, 
4 and it will always bring to thee vengeance and 
victory, but do not bear it thyself, for doom 
will ever fall on him who holds it.’ The Irish 
hosts, led by their aged king, Brian Bora, and 
his ~on, Murrough, had no fearful black ban- 
ners or steel weapons, and armor was unknown 
to them.” 

44 Tough hole for Brian, wasn’t it? Did you 
say he licked ’em? ” asked John eagerly. 

44 Yes, and the Danes’ power in Ireland was 
broken. In this great battle twenty thousand 
men fought on each side. The defeated Danes 
tried to reach their ships, but were pursued 
even into the waves by the triumphant Irish. 
Their victory, however, was darkened by the 
death of many of the Irish leaders. Ireland 
seems to have been always unfortunate. Even 
the poet Ossian, in ancient times, wrote that his 
countrymen 4 went forth to the war, but they 
always fell.’ Brian’s grandson, a mere boy, 
was found dead with his hands clutching the 
hair of a tall Dane ; Murrough only lived until 
the next morning, and even Brian, the aged 
king, was killed at the door of his tent by Bro- 
der, the Viking. Brian Bora had been a brave, 
great king, and his death was worthy of a sol- 


38 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

dier. It was a great Irish victory, but before 
it was won the Danes had sadly devastated the 
country. An old tradition says that the only 
animals left in Ireland after the battle of Clon- 
tarf were hens and weasels. When cocks crow 
in the morning country people will sometimes 
say : 4 It is for Denmark they are crowing. 
Crowing they are to be back in Denmark! ’ ” 

“ What about the fellow who couldn’t touch 
the flag? ” demanded John. 

“ Sigurd? Well, he heeded his mother’s 
mysterious warning as long as he could, but 
the moment came when he had to carry it him- 
self. Murrough immediately attacked him, a 
sword in either hand; with one weapon he 
knocked off Sigurd’s helmet, with the other he 
pierced his body.” 

Betty had been so interested in listening to 
Mrs. Pitt’s account of the battle that she almost 
lost her balance as the tram swung around a 
corner. They were about to cross the Isthmus 
of Sutton, and the high hill of Howth loomed 
ahead. 

“ That would be a ducky hill to climb,” re- 
marked Barbara. “ It has pretty woods at the 
bottom and rocks on top. I like those red rocks, 
don’t you? ” 

They might have taken the railroad which 
now carries the tourist up this hill, guarding 
the entrance to Dublin Bay, which has been 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


39 


compared in beauty with the Bay of Naples. 
Mrs. Pitt had other plans, however, and her 
party kept their places on the tram until it had 
passed through the town of Howth and came 
to a stop near a quay. Fishing boats, one 
with a bright red sail, were rocking in the 
tiny enclosed harbor, and beyond lay Ireland’s 
Eye. 

44 Is that the Puck Rock! ” inquired Philip. 
44 It looks like a face — there, where I’m point- 
ing. ’ ’ 

44 There is a face,” said Betty; 4 4 I see it, 
too. My book says that this legend 4 accounts 
for the natural phenomenon.’ That means the 
face in the rock. Phouka is a fairy that looks 
like a goat, isn’t it! Listen, and I’ll read you 
the rest: 

44 Puck, or Phouka, is a mischievous, not 
to say malignant, Celtic sprite, whose name ap- 
pears in Poulaphouca Waterfall on the upper 
Liffey and in the phrase 4 to play Puck,’ 
meaning to throw into utter confusion. The 
good St. Nessan of Ireland’s Eye, while en- 
gaged in his task of illuminating the Gospel 
of Howth, was so plagued by this Puck that, in 
a burst of anger, he flung the sacred manuscript 
at his tormentor. The missile struck the ir- 
reverent goblin with such force that he was 
transfixed against the rock, where he remains to 
this day, 4 to point a moral and adorn a 
tale.’ ” 


40 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ Wish you wouldn’t read words like those, 
Betty,” muttered John; “ whoever ’d know 
what they’re all about! S’pose it means that 
Saint What’s-his-name threw his book at Puck 
and then he stuck to the rock forever. Let him 
stick. I want my lunch.” 

Thus reminded, the others discovered that 
they were hungry, too, so they went to an at- 
tractive hotel, near the quay. In the summer 
season Howth is a popular resort, but on this 
spring day a chilly wind blew in from the Irish 
Sea. 

“ Who knows what a cromlech is! ” asked 
Mrs. Pitt, when the edge was off their appe- 
tites. 

No one seemed to have heard the word, not 
even Betty, so Mrs. Pitt had to tell them. 
John’s interest failed when he heard that a 
cromlech is merely a “ prehistoric tomb,” usu- 
ally erected to some great chief. 

“ But they’re very different from any tombs 
you ever saw,” Mrs. Pitt assured them. “ I 
think you’ll be interested in this one, John. It’s 
somewhere on the estate of the Lord of Howth ; 
we can wander about the grounds and perhaps 
you’ll like to hunt down the cromlech.” 

The others were more enthusiastic, and they 
set forth on their search, little thinking that it 
would take them the entire afternoon. 

Leaving the little hotel, they saw the remains 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


4i 


of an ancient abbey, clinging quaintly to a steep 
hillside. They then followed the road until they 
came to the gates of Howth Castle, long the 
home of the St. Lawrence family, whose 
founder is supposed to have been Tristram, a 
knight of King Arthur’s Round Table. 

“ Nowadays there is nothing to forbid the 
entrance of strangers, but a royal lady was 
once turned away from these gates,” Mrs. Pitt 
related as they walked up the drive. 4 4 It was 
in Queen Elizabeth’s time, that Grace O’Malley, 
whom the Irish called Granuaile (phonetically, 
Granny a Walya ), Princess of Connaught, 
landed at Howth on her return from a trip to 
England. The Irish were always hospitable, 
you know; as late as 1842, when Thackeray 
toured the country, he and twelve others from 
the same coach would often spend a night at a 
gentleman’s estate, being cordially received. 
No wonder, then, that Grace O’Malley looked 
for a welcome at Howth Castle, and was angry 
to find the gates closed fast because the family 
was at dinner. Apparently she possessed a 
royal temper, for she promptly kidnapped the 
baby heir, carried him away to the wilds of her 
own County Mayo, and refused to surrender 
him until his father promised never again to 
shut the gates during dinner-time. I suppose 
that’s why we find them open to us to-day.” 

They wandered through the Howth Castle 


42 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

demesne, quite unmolested. Now and then, 
through gaps in the thick trees and hedges bor- 
dering the drives and paths, they had glimpses 
of lovely views beyond. At length they came to 
the castle itself, a quaint pile of four original 
towers, and additions of varying ages and 
styles. Workmen were busy about the place. 
It was rumored that a new lord was desirous 
of fitting his ancestral place with modern 
equipments. 

John asked one of the carpenters to direct 
him to the cromlech, but a hopeless shake of 
the head was his only reply. A gardener, who 
presumably belonged to the estate, was of little 
more help, though he pointed vaguely with his 
knotty old finger. A pretty young servant-maid 
in a blue dress and a white apron, who was 
standing under an old gate with its coat of 
arms, had a gleam of intelligence in her eyes 
when they asked her. 

“ Now, look a’ that! ” she cried. “ The 
crumbly stone, is it? Only yisterday I did be 
hearing Molly say there do be a big stone like, 
up by them rhododendrons.” 

4 4 Which way are they? ” demanded Mrs. 
Pitt hastily. 

“ Up the mountain, milady. Ye must follow 
the drive, down beyant.” 

This was all the help that seemed available, 
so they walked on down the drive, in the shade 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


43 


of tlie huge, gray-green trees. It was grass- 
grown here, and pretty wild onion plants, with 
white flowers, were thick on each side. The 
avenue ended abruptly in a rough field. 

“ Here’s the jumping-off place, sure 
enough! ” said John. “ Now what? 99 
“ This might be a path, Mrs. Pitt,” Betty 
hesitated. “ Yes, it’s a real one a little farther 
on, but the grass grows all over it.” 

“ Perhaps the Lords of Howth want to con- 
ceal the paths to the cromlech, Betty. My 
word! Here’s a stile, and on the other side 
another long avenue! ” 

Philip and John, having entered into the 
spirit of exploration, were enjoying themselves 
hugely. They kept well in the lead, the others 
following. It seemed as though they walked 
miles along shady, ghostly avenues, or narrow 
lanes ; it was as if they were in a kind of maze. 
At the end of an hour they seemed to be no 
nearer their goal, but they had no idea of giving 
up the search. They met no one on the way ex- 
cept a governess and two little girls with bare 
knees and long, shining hair. 

“ They’re the princesses from the castle,” 
laughed Betty, “ and they’ll have us seized and 
put in a dungeon! ” 

But they didn’t. They only looked at the 
strangers curiously, as if they might like to 
speak to them. 


44 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

At last they came upon the cromlech, at the 
end of a long, lime-lined avenue, moist with 
fallen leaves. As they loitered to examine it, 
John sat astride one of the fallen bowlders. 

44 Only a lot of big stones,” he remarked, 
opening his knife and beginning to whittle. 
4 4 Don ’t tell me that this is a tomb ! ’ ’ 

44 But it was once, John,” said Mrs. Pitt. 
4 4 You see, that largest stone, the one which is 
standing almost on end, was held up by all the 
smaller ones. Can ’t you think how there would 
have been a tiny room beneath? That was 
where the ancient Irish sometimes buried their 
kings and warriors. The country people used 
to tell another story about the cromlechs. They 
said that Finn MacCool, the giant, had a pretty 
wife who tired of her over-large, clumsy hus- 
hand, and ran away with a handsome youth, 
named Diarmid. Finn chased the pair all over 
Ireland, and every night Diarmid had to build 
just such a cromlech for a shelter. ’ ’ 

44 Did Finn MacCool catch them, Mother? ” 
asked Barbara. 

4 4 Dearie me, Barbara ! What a question ! 
Come, and we’ll see the beautiful rhododen- 
drons that will soon be a mass of color.” 

They are planted in the bottom and up and 
down the sides of a little ravine, and many per- 
sons come to see them when they are in bloom. 
Barbara and Betty discovered buds here and 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


45 


there, already showing their color, and as they 
wended their way back towards the road and 
the tram, Barbara pleaded: 

“ Oh, mother, do say we may come back 
again when it’s June! ” 


CHAPTER FOUR 


MORE ABOUT DUBLIN 

“ What is it we’re looking for, mother? A 
church? I don’t see any here.” 

“ It’s St. Audoen’s Church we’re trying to 
find,” answered Betty promptly. 4 4 Here it is 
in the hook, — ‘ one of the oldest religious build- 
ings still in use in Dublin.’ I’d like to find it, 
but you certainly can’t see it from the High 
Street, can you? Oh, what funny broad steps, 
just like Clovelly! I’m going down them.” 

The old church, strangely hidden away by 
the slope of a hill, is not visible from the street 
because of intervening houses ; but by descend- 
ing those wide steps which had taken 
Betty’s fancy, a dark battlemented tower is 
reached. Underneath is the entrance to old St. 
Audoen’s. 

Mrs. Pitt tried the iron gate, but found it 
locked. Involuntarily she appealed to an old 
man who leaned against the fence, smoking. 
At first he only stared blankly at the intruders, 
but in reply to a sharp question he admitted that 
the gate key was in his pocket. 

In a dim vestibule, they saw the ancient 

46 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


47 


tombs of the founders of the chapel, Lord and 
Lady Portlester, whose monument was erected 
in 1455. Pointing upwards, the old man mut- 
tered something about how part of the turret 
of the tower was blown off in 4 4 the big wind,” 
but he could not tell them what year that 
was, (Mrs. Pitt thought it was in 1839), and 
he did not utter another syllable in their 
presence. 

44 I bet he’s the only fellow in the British 
Isles who won ’t hustle for his shilling, — I mean 
4 bob,’ ” remarked John cannily. 44 Betty, it’s 
up to you to tell us about the old hole.” 

After all, there was not much to tell about 
this dark, dreary bit of the past, where one for- 
gets the twentieth century for the moment. 

They groped their way through the vestibule 
to what was once an aisle but is now inclosed 
as a chapel. There is a twelfth-century Nor- 
man font, and under the worn matting one may 
read the inscriptions on the tombs of men and 
women of former centuries who were buried 
in the vaults beneath. Through a tiny doorway 
and up some steps they went until they came 
to a part of the old church where the roof has 
been destroyed, and the Gothic arches and 
inscriptions upon the pillars, walls, and floor 
are gradually disappearing. Some one has 
traced an underground passage which is sup- 
posed to have connected St. Audoen’s with the 


48 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

crypt of Christ Church Cathedral ; but this did 
not tempt them to further exploration, and 
they were glad to get away from the dampness 
and mold. 

‘ ‘ Even the cats have the willies here ! ’ ’ said 
John, as one poor frightened beast peered out 
for a moment from behind a crumbling Eliza- 
bethan tomb. 

When they had seen St. Audoen’s city gate, 
hastily built when Edward Bruce and his army 
were threatening the city, they turned back to- 
wards the High Street. Beyond the gate lay 
a district of such horrible poverty that Mrs. 
Pitt led them away immediately. 

Christ Church Cathedral is very different 
from its neighbor, St. Audoen’s; it is big and 
strong and splendid. Although the most an- 
cient building in Dublin, it looks new. The 
Danes probably built a rude church here, and 
there still remains a wonderful crypt with 
enormous columns and arches untouched since 
the twelfth century. The building, as one sees 
it to-day, dates from about 1600; but it was 
entirely reconstructed in 1871, for the peat soil 
under the cathedral had caused some of the 
walls to sink. 

In the cathedral many persons famous in 
Irish history are supposed to be buried; Strong- 
bow’s tomb is there, and his son’s, that of his 
wife, Eva, and of his sister who referred to 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


49 


her dead brother as “ that great jaw-tooth, 
which has long been troubling me.” 

J ohn was not fond of tombs or monuments as 
a rule, and he refused to linger by any of these 
except the one to the warrior, Strongbow, and 
his son. 

“ Who was Strongbow? '' he demanded; 
“ and why is the kid grabbing his stomach? '' 

“ Who was Strongbow? Well, that's a long 
story. Let's sit here a few minutes, in these 
back chairs, and I'll tell you a little about him. 
In the twelfth century, there was an unjust and 
wicked Irish king, called Dermot MacMurrough. 
He was king of the province of Leinster, but 
he was so hated and persecuted for his evil 
deeds that at last he fled to England, where he 
appealed to Henry II. for help in putting down 
his enemies. Cautious Henry, mindful of all 
the other strong kings in Ireland, refused to 
take up MacMurrough 's cause, although he 
gave permission to any of his subjects to do 
so. From South Wales, where the country was 
poor and not easily cultivated, there went ac- 
cordingly a company of barons who desired to 
win rich estates for themselves in this new land. 
At their head was Richard de Clare, Earl of 
Pembroke, generally called Strongbow. The 
barons landed at Waterford, which they lost 
no time in capturing. Immediately after the 
battle, Strongbow was married to Eva, Der- 


50 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

mot’s daughter. Hearing that Dublin was in 
revolt against the Danes, he hurried to the 
scene of action and took the city by storm. 
From that day the English have alternately 
won and lost power in Ireland, but they never 
have left the country. 

“ But I had almost forgotten about Strong- 
bow’s son, hadn’t I? Fancy! The story goes 
that the ambitious boy had his father’s leave 
to command some cavalry in a certain expedi- 
tion; but when the battle began, he was over- 
come with fear, and disgraced his father by 
fleeing from the field. Uncontrollably angry, 
Strongbow killed the boy by running him 
through with his sword. The quaint statue un- 
dertakes to show us the exact position of the 
wound, as you see. Some one has suggested 
that the great chief himself may have planned 
this curious monument to atone for his deed.” 

Centuries after the death of Strongbow, the 
boy’s monument was put to an odd use. It be- 
came the “ ’Change ” of Dublin, the place 
where one man came to pay another a debt. 
The spot where the heavy coins were laid down 
is clearly shown by a depression in the head 
of the statue. 

Before they left the cathedral, Mrs. Pitt read 
them a quaint description of Strongbow by an 
old historian, named Cambrensis: “ The earl 
was somewhat ruddie and of sanguine com- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


5i 


plexion and freckle-faced, his eies grei, his face 
feminine, his voice small, and his necke little, 
but somewhat of a high stature. He was very 
liberall, courteous, and gentle; what he could 
not compasse and bring to passe in died, he 
would win by good words and gentle speeches. 
In time of peace, he was more readie to yield 
and obeie than to rule and beare swaie. ... In 
all chances of warre, he was still one and the 
same maner of man, being neither dismaid with 
adversitie nor puffed up with prosperities ’ — 
a picture somehow quite unlike our notion of 
the great Anglo-Norman conqueror’s appear- 
ance and habits. 

Just as they left Christ Church Cathedral, 
the clatter of hoofs caused them to look quickly 
in the direction of College Green, where they 
saw a man in full uniform riding swiftly away 
on a glossy black horse. A bright pennant 
floated from a staff, fastened to a stirrup and 
supported by a band about the soldier’s arm. 

“ He’s one of the Fifth Lancers, stationed at 
Phcenix Park. They sometimes carry dis- 
patches from one part of the city to another. 
Never mind, children, perhaps you’ll see him 
some other day,” laughed Mrs. Pitt, as they 
dashed up the path to the street, in the hope 
of getting a better view of the vanishing 
figure. 

They found Dublin Castle all upset for re- 


52 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

pairs. Painters had left their stagings and 
other belongings in the Upper Castle Yard, and 
carpenters hurried up and down. It was all 
very bustling and modern, not at all like the at- 
mosphere of the thirteenth century, when the 
castle was first built. 

44 The original castle, inclosed by walls, was 
about as large as this Upper Yard,” said Mrs. 
Pitt ; 4 4 only a bit of the old wall and two flanking 
towers are left now. Into this small space were 
crowded the Courts of Justice, the Exchequer, 
the Mint, the Viceroy’s residence, and the prison. 
The Lord Lieutenants, before they changed 
their place of abode, lived within a stone ’s throw 
of the criminals. The authorities took but lit- 
tle care of the many buildings, and in the six- 
teenth or seventeenth century there was a fire, 
after which the viceroy wrote to the king that 
his loss only comprised a few barrels of pow- 
der and the 4 worst castle in the worst situa- 
tion in Christendom.’ There are some people 
entering the State Apartments ; we ’d better go 
along. ’ ’ 

4 4 Oh, see all the white and gold rooms ! ’ ’ ex- 
claimed Betty, a few minutes later. 44 And 
there’s a real throne, like the one in St. James’s 
Palace, London. Isn’t it just like it, John? 
Do they have courts here, too, Mrs. Pitt; and 
who sits on the throne when there isn’t any 
king? ” 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


53 

“ Great guns, Betty! I know that! It’s the 
cocky little Lord Lieutenant, of course.’ ’ 

“ Yes, so he does, John. r At one time Dub- 
lin courts were most delightful, more brilliant 
than those across the Irish Sea. Sometimes 
they were exciting, too, — when a new Lord 
Lieutenant had not been well received, for in- 
stance. Then, as the state carriages drove 
through the lamp-lit streets, there were shrill 
screams of disapproval and occasionally stones 
were thrown. The young girls must have been 
very glad when they were helped out of their 
carriages to safe shelter. It took some cour- 
age, though, to enter the long room, make one ’s 
first courtesy, and be kissed by the Lord Lieu- 
tenant. It must have been most agreeable to 
that functionary, for Irish girls have always 
been noted for their beauty. You remember 
what Father Prout says of them : 

U{ Light on their feet now they passed me and sped, 

Give you me word, give you me word, 

Every girl wid a turn o’ the head, 

Just like a bird, just like a bird; 

And the lashes so thick round their beautiful eyes 
Shinin' to tell you it’s fair time a’ day wid them, 
Back in me heart wid a kind of surprise, 

I think how the Irish girls has the way wid them/ ” 

“ Just like the two girls I saw jumping up 
on an outside-car the first day we came,” ob- 
served Barbara, when the party and guide were 


54 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

descending the broad stairs from proud St. Pat- 
rick’s Hall. “ My word! They were ducky, 
Mother! ” 

The castle has, of course, its dark memories. 
From the guide they heard about a siege dur- 
ing the rebellion of “ Silken Thomas,” a young 
lord deputy of the time of Henry VIII., who 
was over-fond of rich clothes and gorgeous 
retinues. In the ancient Record Tower is a cell 
where this unfortunate nobleman was impris- 
oned ; near by is a secret chamber with no light 
or air, entered by a revolving door! On an 
upper floor is the cell of Owen Roe O’Donnell, 
who made his escape on a bitter midwinter’s 
night by swimming the stream below. This 
brook still flows under the road as it did in 
Queen Elizabeth’s reign, when the wronged 
young Irish noble, whose power was feared by 
the English, made his dash for the Wicklow 
mountains and liberty. The escape by the aid 
of a stout rope and the unclean moat was merely 
the beginning of far worse difficulties in store 
for him and his companions. There was a 
snowstorm in the mountains, in which one mem- 
ber of the party was lost, another died from 
exhaustion and exposure, and O’Donnell’s feet 
were so frostbitten that he could not stand on 
them for months afterwards. 

“ Red Hugh was all right. It was no joke 
to get caught in those days! ” 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


55 


On their way to St. Patrick's Cathedral they 
went through crowded streets, where live many 
of Dublin's poor. Throngs of begging children 
literally blocked the way, and ugly, frowzled 
women lingered in doorways, babies in their 
arms. Very different Irishwomen were these 
from the dainty guests of Dublin Castle's gay 
balls. Here were many of the type that 
the Irish call “ the full-of-the-door of a 
woman." 

In front of a public house stood a strange 
vehicle which they stopped to examine. Upon 
two wheels was balanced a flat platform with 
a shallow hole in the center. It was loaded 
high with furniture. 

Anticipating their questions, Mrs. Pitt ex- 
plained that it was one of the low-cars usually 
found nearer the north quays. “ It was the 
original jaunting-car," she said. “ Workmen 
used to borrow these cars of their employers on 
Sundays to take their families to the country. 
People sat back to back, with their legs over 
the wheels. The car became very popular, and 
by and by it grew into the outside-car which 
we use to-day." 

St. Patrick's has been a rival of Christ 
Church Cathedral ever since 1191, when certain 
early Norman archbishops built a new church 
on the island in the river Poddle, where St. 
Patrick, feeling thirsty, is believed to have 


56 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

called forth a holy well. Christ Church be- 
longs to the city, but St. Patrick’s is claimed 
by the nation. 

“ I love the windows, mother,” remarked 
Barbara, looking down the nave towards the 
chancel. “ They are just the right colors, — so 
soft! ” 

Philip and John craned their necks, attempt- 
ing to examine the banners of historic Irish 
regiments which are hung high on the walls 
of St. Patrick’s. Undoubtedly these tattered 
relics had been in famous battles. 

As might have been expected, it was Betty 
who remembered that Jonathan Swift, a great 
Irish writer, had been Dean of St. Patrick’s. 
She found the plain wooden pulpit from which 
he used to preach, and his grave with that of 
“ Stella,” to whom he addressed his poems and 
letters. 

“ This stone, marked with the Celtic cross,” 
Mrs. Pitt told them later, “ was found during 
some excavations. Some think it marked the 
site of St. Patrick’s well. But here, in the south 
transept, is something you will all like better. 
Aren’t you coming, John? ” 

Leaning against a pillar was an old door, 
still strong and solid, but with a ragged hole 
in the center. 

“ Not big enough for a monk to hand you out 
bread and beer,” said John, remembering an 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


57 

experience lie had had at St. Cross’s Hospital, 
near Winchester, England. 

“ No, this door played its part in the fends 
of Kildare and Ormond, powerful earls of the 
seventeenth century. Ormond had been sum- 
moned by Kildare to a conference, here in the 
cathedral. While this was in progress, their 
followers fell to fighting, and Ormond, fearing 
treachery, retreated to the Chapter House, 
where he barricaded himself until Kildare gave 
pledge for his safety. Then a hole was cut in 
the door with an ax, and the two shook hands. 
Those were days of mighty factions, much con- 
flict and bloodshed. Come, shall we go now? ” 

Outside it seemed very noisy, after leaving 
the quiet shadows of St. Patrick’s. The street 
peddlers, sitting on the ground, were crying 
their strange assortment of wares; shawled 
women stood on the street corners, talking in 
shrill voices or staring after the strangers. 
Betty drew her skirts closely about her and 
walked in the middle of the streets to avoid 
the swarms of children on the sidewalks and 
on the steps of houses. Betty never had 
liked “ slumming,” but now and then she ven- 
tured to glance in at these open doors, where 
she saw spacious stairways with beautiful 
carved balustrades. Clearly these were fine 
houses of the Irish gentry not many years ago. 

‘ 4 It’s awful to let such people live where 


5 8 IRISH HISTORY VISIT 

there are doors like these! ” she announced. 
“ They’re really just as nice as the ones near 
home, in Salem, Massachusetts! And I don’t 
believe there are any better ones in Dublin, 
even where the fashionable people live.” 

Betty was visibly relieved to return to the 
polite regions of Fitzwilliam and Merrion 
Squares and of Stephen’s Green, where at least 
the doorplates receive a brighter polish. 



The polite regions of Fitzwilliam and Merrion Squares, 

WHERE AT LEAST THE DOORPLATES RECEIVE A 

brighter polish. — Page 58. 






CHAPTER FIVE 


MOTORING TO DROGHEDA AND THE BOYNE VALLEY 

One showery morning their jaunting-car 
jolted them over the cobblestones to quaint 
Steevens’s Hospital, built long ago by a mys- 
terious lady who went closely veiled because, it 
was rumored, her face was horribly like a pig’s 
snout. 

From there they drove to the museum and 
saw the exquisite Cross of Cong, made in the 
early part of the twelfth century when the gold- 
smiths did work which, for artistic quality and 
craftsmanship, has never been rivalled. There 
were also astonishing things which people have 
dug out of Irish bogs from time to time, — 
all sorts of things, from tubs of “ bog butter ” 
to wonderful jewelry of pure gold. Mrs. Pitt 
said that the golden collars, rings, and combs 
were probably like those worn by the lady in 
Moore 9 s poem, who, in the reign of Brian Boru, 
walked unprotected through Ireland. 

“ What did she do that fori 99 

“ The ballad doesn’t precisely state,” replied 
Mrs. Pitt, — “ but you may hear it for your- 
selves. ’ ’ 


59 


6 o 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ ‘ Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; 

But, oh, her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gems and snow-white wand. 

“‘Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, 

So lone and lovely, thro’ this bleak way? 

Are Erin’s sons so good or so cold 
As not to be tempted by woman or gold? 

“ ‘ Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm ; 

No son of Erin will offer me harm; 

For, tho’ they love woman and golden store, 

Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue more ! 

“ ‘ On she went, and her maiden smile 

In safety lighted her ’round the Green Isle ; 

And blessed forever is she who relied 
Upon Erin’s honor and Erin’s pride ! ’ ” 

From a distance they saw the new round 
tower which marks the grave of O’Connell, an 
Irish patriot whom an idolizing peasant de- 
scribed as “ a grand man; the best within the 
walls of the world.” But better than this was 
their afternoon at Phoenix Park, a huge tract 
of land containing 1,760 acres. Here all kinds 
of pleasant things are done. When they had 
driven along some of the roads, and had had 
a glimpse of the Vice-Regal Lodge, they came 
in sight of a polo field. The boys insisted upon 
stopping here, and Mrs. Pitt and the girls were 
quite willing. 

“ It is pretty, isn’t it? ” exclaimed Betty, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


6 1 


standing up on the steps of the jaunting-car 
to look far over the green turf to where the 
All Ireland teams were galloping about, strik- 
ing the ball with swift, sure strokes that sent 
it spinning far down the field. 

“ I say, Mother! What’s all this row? ” de- 
manded Philip, when bugles were suddenly 
heard. It proved to be the Lord Lieutenant 
and Lady Aberdeen, driving toward the scene 
in an imposing four-horse carriage with out- 
riders. 

“ Oh, this is great! Just five minutes 
more! ” John protested. 

Mrs. Pitt finally had to tell the driver to 
take them back to town. 

The following day was perfect for motoring, 
clear and cool. The modest estates of the 
northern suburbs looked very pretty in the 
bright sunshine, and the motor-car sped along 
the winding roads as if glad to be in the open 
country. The fields were a true Irish green, and 
the beauty of spring was in the delicate haw- 
thorn and blazing yellow gorse, just beginning 
to show their colors in the hedges. Beyond lay 
low hills, some shadowy purple under the 
massed, white clouds which overhung them. 

In the midst of a losing argument which John 
was holding with the chauffeur on the subject 
of being allowed to drive the car, they reached 
the village of Swords, consisting of eight or 


6 2 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

ten clean whitewashed cottages, a church and a 
round tower. On they went down the one empty 
street, through Lusk, and farther on towards 
Skerries, which lies on a bleak point with the 
ocean at its feet. 

44 It’s terribly lonesome! ” said Betty, look- 
ing at the rows of gray stone houses. 44 The 
wind blows so, and there don’t seem to be any 
trees.” 

This impression was forgotten, however, 
when they reached a high road along the cliffs 
from which there was a superb view. Some one 
pointed out an island on which St. Patrick is 
said to have lived for a while in order to es- 
cape from his enemies, the Druids. 

44 There’s Balbriggan, yonder,” said Mrs. 
Pitt, after a while. 44 Do you see the houses, 
across the fields? ” 

44 Balbriggan,” repeated Betty thoughtfully; 
then her face lighted up. 44 Stockings! ” she 
announced triumphantly. 

Mrs. Pitt laughed. 44 Fancy! How did you 
know that Balbriggan makes stockings? ” 

44 I wonder if mine came from there,” said 
Betty, looking down at her ankles. 

44 Perhaps,” said Mrs. Pitt, as she leaned 
forward to give the driver an order. She had 
once met two maiden ladies who lived at Bal- 
briggan, in a little square house with a walled 
garden at one side. It was so prim and quaint 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


63 

that Betty longed to see behind the brick walls, 
but a rosy, frightened girl told them that her 
mistresses were “ from home — traveling.” 
Yes, she told them, the garden was sweetly 
pretty, but she had her orders to admit no one. 

About noon they reached Drogheda and, 
crossing the town, they were on a country road 
leading to Monasterboice. 

u We will return to Drogheda in time for a 
late luncheon/ ’ said Mrs. Pitt. 

There followed an animated discussion on 
the pronunciation of the name Drogheda, which 
should be Drdw-e-da. 

“ Oh, I say," protested John, “is that the 
way you do it! In the book it’s spelled 
D-r-o-g-h-e-d-a. In the U. S. A., D-r-o-g-h 
doesn’t spell 1 draw ’ ! ” 

4 ‘ I know another name something like that , 9 9 
remarked Barbara, in her casual way. “ It’s 
Youghal. They call that ‘ Yawl 9 A lady who 
has been there told me so.” 

The ruins of Monasterboice cannot be seen 
from the highway. The visitor must leave his 
car at a gate beyond which is a mossy bit of 
road. The gate is invariably locked and there 
is no caretaker, but there is a nice Irish stone 
stile over which one may climb. Beyond, amid 
the tall grass, guarded by a broken round 
tower, lie the ruins of the buildings that housed 
one of Ireland’s famous religious colonies. 


6 4 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

When there were only savage tribes in Eng- 
land, men were coming here in search of cul- 
ture or of the peace of a religious life. 

“ In the days of St. Patrick, people in Ire- 
land were very religious,” said Mrs. Pitt. 
“ The saint was surrounded by a large group 
of holy men, absolutely indifferent to worldly 
things, anxious only to spread Christianity and 
to convert the pagan Irish. After St. Patrick’s 
death, these early clergy had a hard struggle to 
keep the new religion alive in a land where the 
Druids were still influential. Some of St. Pat- 
rick’s followers traveled through the island, 
converting, encouraging, and advising the peo- 
ple; others retired to remote islands or quiet 
valleys to devote themselves to prayer and 
the making and copying of annals and books. 
One of these men came here to Monasterboice 
at the close of the fifth century. Others joined 
him and lived in tiny individual huts or 
cells, going to a common chapel for worship. 
There was usually a round tower in such 
places, probably for protection. Thus these 
little communities started and, as time went 
on, they became famous as places of culture 
and education. Clonmacnoise, another famous 
colony, has been called ‘ the secluded recess of 
the sons of nobles.’ ” 

“ A fellow would get a fine recess living 
here! ” murmured John. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 65 

It is all strangely lonely and depressing. As 
an old Irishman once said, “ All the heat that 
was in the sun wouldn’t give a warm look to 
the ould place. ’ ’ Two of the finest, most elabo- 
rately carved Celtic crosses in Ireland are here, 
and the low ruins of two chapels, one of the 
twelfth century and one perhaps some hun- 
dreds of years older. Everywhere, even inside 
the chapels, grow wild grasses and weeds, a 
black, blighted tree, and the round tower with 
its shattered top overshadowing the place. Be- 
tween the ruins and the road are a few scat- 
tered modern graves. 

A peasant woman had been coming towards 
them from the direction of a cottage, across 
the fields. She began to talk about the crosses, 
which she said u came from Rome in one 
night,” and she showed Mrs. Pitt and Betty a 
round mark faintly stamped on the under part 
of one of the arms of the cross. She told them 
a strange tale about this. 

“ Sure there was a grand holy woman,” said 
she, “ lived on her own share o’ land, widout 
a person wid her but herself. They did be al- 
ways havin’ famines or sicknesses in thim days, 
and this saint she was afther bakin’ cakes wid 
her own hands and handin’ thim to ivery hun- 
gry body till he’d ate his fill. Ivery man o’ 
thim was for callin’ her a saint and for singin’ 
her praises, for she never turned a poor body 


66 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

away impty. From ind to ind of Erin there 
was no holier body. Well, wan fine day, the 
saint she died on thim. They was never done 
talkin’ of the iligant monument they’d be afther 
puttin’ up to her. But one of the holy fathers 
he tould thim to go to Monasterboice church- 
yard, the day on the morrow, to see was there 
ony thing new there. They wint, ma’am, and 
they seen her open hand, stamped with the 
cake on it, — there on yonder cross, to the sight 
and light of all eyes. And there yez can see 
it to-day, glory he to God! ” 

“ Sure thing! ” assented John, squatting on 
the grass for a further examination. 

Luncheon at the unattractive Drogheda ho- 
tel was soon finished, but the motor-car did 
not reappear. Their chauffeur, not a cheerful 
person at best, came up the steps at last, his 
face longer than ever, to report a necessary de- 
lay for some repairs on the carbureter. While 
these were being made, they went for a stroll, 
in the course of which John found the fasci- 
nating clay-pipe factory. 

Who would imagine that ordinary white clay 
pipes can be made in such a delightful way ! In- 
stead of being turned out by the thousand from 
a huge modern machine, one man was making 
each pipe with his own hands. In a room at 
the head of a flight of clay-whitened steps, he 
was molding a thin bit of clay and putting it 



John found the fascinating clay-pipe factory. — Page 66. 







IRISH HISTORY VISIT 67 

in an iron form, from which if emerged a 
smooth, perfectly shaped pipe. Again and 
again this was done, and the children never 
tired of watching the process. Finally the pipe- 
maker led the way down to the yard, where 
lay hundreds of white pipes on big tables, and 
on the roofs of low sheds, drying in the sun. 
John could hardly be persuaded to leave the 
place, even after he had proudly invested in a 
pipe of his own. 

Drogheda, with its gray old city gate and its 
grewsome memory of Cromwell’s massacre in 
1649, was soon left behind. They followed the 
road through the picturesque valley of the 
Boyne, a tiny stream which is sometimes al- 
most choked by rushes. It is hard to picture 
it as the setting of one of the most famous bat- 
tles in Irish history, that between the forces 
of Protestant King William and of Catholic 
King James in 1690. 

“ I say, Mother! I jolly well forget which 
won! ” said Philip, turning to look back at the 
slender shaft of the Boyne Monument. u Oh, 
it was William, of course, and James had to 
flee to France. But some of these old fellows 
over here talk as if James won the Battle of 
the Boyne. That old gardener, Tummas, 
does.” 

“No wonder James got licked! ” put in 
John. “ Betty’s book says he was a Stuart, and 


68 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

the Stuarts were punk kings — got their heads 
cut off in England, and had to have a girl like 
that Flora MacDonald get them out of scrapes 
in Scotland.” 

After a while the chauffeur left the river 
road and turned into a stony country lane, which 
the Irish call a 44 bohreen.” Its numerous 
windings brought them to the gate of a field 
in which was a great mound of rocks, overgrown 
with grass and trees. At regular intervals 
around the hill huge boulders had been 
placed. 

44 Now, whatever can this be? ” questioned 
Barbara, as they all followed Mrs. Pitt into the 
field. 

44 Here’s a kind of a door! ” cried Betty; 
44 and see the funny flat stone with the circles 
drawn on it.” 

44 There’s a low passage beyond,” explained 
Mrs. Pitt ; 4 4 you have to go on your hands and 
knees to get through it. Inside are tombs, for 
the hill was a burial place, probably of kings 
and chiefs of the Dedannans, a tribe of pre- 
historic invaders of Ireland. These burial hills 
are called tumuli, and this one at New Grange 
is the finest of them all. That’s Celtic carv- 
ing on the stone at the entrance. ’ ’ 

44 Kind of a cromlech, isn’t it? ” John re- 
flected. 

44 It’s so queer,” said Betty, 44 that it makes 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 69 

me feel rather — rather hungry ; and we ’ve only 
just had our luncheon.” 

“ There are a great many hills like that, 
aren’t there, Mother? Aren’t there fairy hills, 
too, and hills called 4 raths ’ ! ” 

“ Oh, yes, Barbara, and be sure you never 
fall asleep on a fairy hill, for, if you do, you 
will ‘ wake silly ’ ! Some raths are very dan- 
gerous and some conceal vast treasures, like 
one called ‘ Cashel Nore.’ Inside of that is 
a great treasure which will belong to the 
O’Byrnes after five members of that family 
have been killed immediately after they have 
found the treasure. Fancy ! Other raths were 
surrounded by banks of earth with thorn hedges, 
or they had stakes on top. Ditches were built 
for protection against wild beasts, and people 
lived inside the raths, sometimes even the kings, 
as you’ll see at Tara. Now come; we must 
start.” 

“ Once,” said Philip, as they again ap- 
proached the main road, ‘ 1 I read that they used 
to bury kings in their full armor, standing up 
in their graves, with their faces turned towards 
their enemies’ land.” 

“ Yes, Philip,” replied his mother, “ you are 
right, and this was supposed to have an evil 
effect upon the dead man’s enemies, who would 
always be defeated in battle unless they came 
and reburied the body, head downwards.” 


?o 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

On they went from New Grange, seeing an old 
ruined oratory at Slane, St. Erc’s Hermitage. 
St. Ere, a noble of the court at Tara, was dis- 
graced for disobeying the king’s orders in ris- 
ing and saluting St. Patrick. Between Slane 
and Navan, there was a fine view of the Mar- 
quis of Conyngham’s castle, its lawns reaching 
to the Boyne Water. Trim, a little farther 
on, abounds in ruined castles and abbeys. 

Not far away is Dangan House, a country 
seat of the Wellesleys, where there are associa- 
tions with the Duke of Wellington. 

“ A caretaker once told me,” said Mrs. Pitt, 
6 6 that on the day of the Battle of Waterloo, 
4 he’d heard tell ’ that, just at sunrise, there 
was a fierce battle fought in the air over Dan- 
gan House. Those who were there saw fight- 
ing and the smoke from many guns; but if 
they once took their eyes away, it all van- 
ished suddenly. The Duke and the Marquis of 
Wellesley were born in Dublin, but spent much 
of their youth at Dangan. ’ ’ 

“ We’ve seen so many things to-day,” sighed 
Betty. “ It’s been like a moving-picture show, 
only much more wonderful. Oh, is this Tara! 
Really! ” 

The road had been steep and winding, but 
they did not realize how high Tara Hill is un- 
til an old beggar told them that the view ex- 
tends into seven counties. To this hill five 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


7i 


great highways formerly led from different 
directions, — crude roads where men usually 
had to wade through the mud, in spite of the 
ancient Brehon Laws regarding the care of 
highways. Tara was abandoned in the sixth 
century, but before that it was the most im- 
portant place in Ireland, where lived the 
“ Ard-ri ” (Ard-ree), or over-king, monarch 
over all the lesser kings, each ruling his own 
tribe. 

“ These few furrows and mounds alone re- 
main to tell us of the great palace that was 
here,” said Mrs. Pitt. “ In those days even 
king’s palaces were built of earth and wood, 
for mortar was not known until after the time 
of St. Patrick. But this does not mean that 
the palaces were not beautiful. In fact, we 
read of another royal palace at Emain which 
had a hundred and fifty rooms, each one big 
enough for six people to sleep in. Every room 
was paneled in red oak and bordered with cop- 
per ; there were decorations in gold, bronze, and 
silver with bright jewels, and over the king’s 
head hung a silver wand to which were attached 
three golden apples. These made wonderful 
music, heard all over the palace as a signal for 
silence. There was an anteroom where the 
warriors hung their shining armor, and beyond, 
a huge banqueting hall where three hundred 
knights could be seated at the massive tables, 


72 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

each man with his back to the wall, so that he 
need not fear lurking enemies. Many of those 
heavy gold ornaments which we saw at the 
Dublin Museum had been picked up here, and 
it seems probable that they were worn by the 
ladies of the court.” 

“ Oh, please go on! ” cried Betty enthusias- 
tically. “ It’s all splendid! What else? ” 

“ Great fairs were held at Tara, usually at 
the beginning of a king’s reign. Crowds came 
to hear new laws read, to watch the races, or 
perhaps to hear St. Patrick preach. Here the 
saint disputed with the Druids, you know, and 
it was here that he preached his sermon on the 
Trinity, and picked the little three-leaved sham- 
rock as an emblem. By the way, the shamrock 
is a tiny, insignificant plant which grows wild; 
no one had ever noticed it until St. Patrick 
made it forever famous among plants. Have 
you never seen one? Well, you will if you keep 
your eyes open, for it often grows by the road- 
sides. There’s another kind with four leaves 
which the Irish have named ‘ Mary’s Sham- 
rock! ’ 

“ Cormac MacArt founded three colleges at 
Tara, for the study of law, of history and lit- 
erature, and of military science. Cormac, 
grandson of 4 Conn of the Hundred Battles,’ 
was a kind of Irish King Arthur, but he re- 
tired during a prosperous reign because he had 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


73 


lost one eye. No man who was not physically 
perfect could reign at Tara. Then, in 565, about 
a hundred years after St. Patrick had preached 
there, Tara was suddenly abandoned. It hap- 
pened in this way: One of the Ard-ri’s officers 
was murdered by a chief, named Hugh Guiry, 
and this man chanced to be distantly related 
to St. Ruadhan. The Ard-ri’s servants found 
the murderer under the protecting roof of the 
saint, but, in spite of this, they seized him and 
took him to Tara for trial. Then the churchmen 
rose against the Ard-ri who had disregarded the 
authority of the church; it was the old, old 
quarrel for supremacy between the church and 
state. St. Ruadhan cursed the king and 
the seat of his government, and uttered that 
famous prophecy, 4 Desolate be Tara forever 
and ever.’ So great was the peopled awe of 
the churchmen’s power that the murderer was 
immediately surrendered, and Tara did indeed 
become desolate forever and ever. Now there 
are only these few ruins and the ‘ Lia Fail,’ or 
ancient coronation stone. Yes, Barbara, that’s 
it on the top of the hill.” 

The air had grown chilly; they sat close to- 
gether and fastened all the buttons of their 
coats as the motor-car hurried them back to- 
wards Dublin through the twilight. 

“ I feel as if I belonged in a Celtic fairy tale, 
don’t you? ” said Mrs. Pitt. “ There, people 


74 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


always travel fast, for some reason. Don’t you 
remember how ‘ they would overtake the March 
wind that was before them, and the March wind 
that was behind them would not overtake them 
until the evening came and the end of the 
day ’i ” 


CHAPTER SIX 


IN COUNTY WICKLOW 

“ All these chaps are going fishing or golf- 
ing,” said Philip, glancing about one of the 
Dublin railway stations. “ I wish we were! ” 

“ We’re sightseeing just now, Philip; but 
your golf will come later. Only wait till we 
reach the west coast. At Bundoran there ’ll 
be golfing, fishing, boating — everything. You’ll 
see. Quick, girls! There’s an empty third- 
class carriage! ” 

Their morning train did have a festive, holi- 
day air. All its carriages were filled with peo- 
ple in sporting clothes, and the racks over- 
flowed with golf bags, tennis rackets, and lunch 
baskets. Some people were off for the day 
only, probably to Bray, with its hotels, golf- 
links, and ocean walks; others were on their 
way to some more distant retreat in the lovely 
Wicklow Mountains. But all were ready for 
the hearty good time in the open air which 
the Irish, as well as the English, know how to 
enjoy to the full. 

While on a motor trip our party had already 
seen one of County Wicklow’s “ show places,” 
75 


7 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

— stately Powerscourt demesne with its fairy- 
like glen through which the River Dargle tum- 
bles, and its views of great sombre mountains. 
Their visit to the Poulaphouca Waterfall, 
on the upper Liffey, was still a favorite recol- 
lection. Every one had been awed by the wild 
fall, dashing into an unfathomed, black whirl- 
pool; but its legends were still nicer to re- 
member. 

“ That was a ripping story you told us, Mrs. 
Pitt, — the one about Cuttings, and his ride on 
the Phouka. What did the Phouka look like on 
that night! Was he always a goat! ” 

“ Oh, he could take any form, you know; he 
is one of the most famous persons in all fairy 
mythology,” replied Mrs. Pitt. “ His other 
name is Puck, or 6 evil one.’ That particular 
night he was a horse, black as coal, with his 
nostrils breathing fire, if I remember the story 
rightly. But you know it better than I do, 
Barbara ; you tell it, but wait till we are through 
this next tunnel! ” she added, hastening to pull 
up the window. 

u Tommy Cuttings ’s real name was Mul- 
lowny , 9 9 began Barbara obediently, ‘ 4 but every- 
body called him Cuttings, for short, because he 
was a tailor. One night he had been working 
on a pair of trousers for the priest, and it 
was very late when he looked up at his mother, 
who was spinning, and said: 4 They’re done, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


77 


Mother, and, if I had them home, wouldn’t I 
be the lucky boy.’ ‘ Take them home,’ said his 
mother, 6 and be lucky.’ Tommy Cuttings was 
afraid to go alone, because that waterfall and 
the deep pool were favorite haunts of the 
Phouka, — that’s why they are named for him, 
you know. But his mother thought him a cow- 
ard and teased him until he made up his mind 
to go. When he came to the pool he heard a 
terribly loud sniffing and snorting, and there 
stood the Phouka ; he was very, very black, and 
the fire he breathed was so bright ! The horse 
asked where he was going, and Tommy told 
him about a wedding there was that night and 
said that in his bundle were the bridegroom’s 
trousers. The Phouka said he would carry 
Tommy there and he made him get on his back, 
poor Tommy remembering all that he had heard 
about how the Phouka sometimes carried people 
over rivers and fields, up and down precipices, 
— anywhere, and always so fast that they almost 
fell off. But this time the Phouka went only 
a few leaps, and then he said that Tommy was 
the heaviest man he had ever had on his back, 
heavier than Oliver Cromwell and Alexander 
the Great and, — oh, I forget who else. Still 
he wouldn’t let Tommy dismount until he hap- 
pened to say that the trousers were really for 
the priest and not for the bridegroom at all. 
(Tommy didn’t mean to tell, you see, but he 


78 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

forgot.) When the Phonka heard it, he snorted : 
‘ That’s it; that’s it, is it? You false tailor, 
to lay the burden of the church on the back 
of the Phouka ! ’ And he tossed Tommy into 
the bottom of the black pool ; he escaped drown- 
ing somehow, but the priest never got his 
trousers, and Tommy never again went out 
alone at night. There! that’s all of it!” 
Whereupon Barbara lapsed into silence, gazing 
out of the carriage window. It is doubtful 
whether she had ever before talked for so many 
minutes at one time. 

“ I love that story,” said Betty, “ ’specially 
because you’d never expect it to come out that 
way. Phoukas and fairy things never like you 
to mention the church, do they? ” she asked 
Mrs. Pitt, who smiled assent. 

At Rathdrum two jaunting-cars were waiting 
to carry them through the Vale of Clara to 
Glendalough. Before the long drive was over 
they were rather tired from the uncushioned, 
almost springless cars, but they were so de- 
lighted with the country that they hardly no- 
ticed the discomfort. First, they wound up the 
steep, winding streets of the town, and then the 
horses trotted along a road, sunny and level, 
high on a plateau. The golden gorse was every- 
where, astonishingly bright and luxuriant. 
There were clumps of it in the fields and 
patches on the hillsides; it grew on cottage 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


79 


walls, hiding the other vines and flowers, and 
thick hedges of it lined the road. A dazzling, 
golden way they traveled that day! As Betty 
said, 4 4 It couldn’t he gloomy here, even if the 
sun went in.” Sometimes the road lay through 
the woods, green, mossy and cool, but it always 
emerged again into the glory of the gorse-lined 
highway ; and all the while there were fine views 
down deep ravines and through long valleys to 
shadowy mountain peaks. 

“ In ancient times — when Tara was at its 
proudest, for instance — there were oak forests 
in County Wicklow. Murkertagh O’Brien, an 
Irish king, sent over to King William Rufus 
some oak from Wicklow, which was made into 
the roof of Westminster Hall, in London. 
When men wanted to till this land, they cleared 
away large tracts of forest, but some trees re- 
mained which decayed and produced the peat 
bogs of to-day. These are military roads, built 
during the 4 4 rising of 1798,” when they had 
to move troops across the mountains.” 

“ Mother, are shillalahs made of oak? ” 
asked Philip. 

“ No, they used to be cut from ash or black- 
thorn in a certain forest, near the town of 
Shillelagh. It was no simple matter, either, 
for an old-time Irishman to select and prepare 
a weapon. After the wood was cut, it had 
to be given a good rubbing with butter, and then 


80 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

be left in the chimney several months. Usually 
shillalahs were about three or four feet long, 
with knotted ends, which could be deadly in 
the grasp of an angry Irishman. But we’ll 
soon be at Glendalough, now. Here come the 
village children to meet us.” 

They were pathetic children in ragged clothes 
and bare feet. Some of them ran silently along 
by the jaunting-cars, holding out their hands 
appealingly; others cried over and over in a 
singsong chorus, “ Crush a — a-penny! Crusha — 
a-penny ! ” which presumably meant, “ Throw 
us a penny! ” But, after several pennies had 
been tossed to them, they continued to fol- 
low the car until Glendalough ’s round tower 
was visible, tall and stately against a back- 
ground of bare mountains, inclosing two blue 
lakes. The cars joggled down a rough hill and 
drew up before a hotel, where the five passen- 
gers were very glad to slip to the ground. 

The sound of the little river Avonmore, flow- 
ing gently over smooth pebbles, came in at the 
open windows of the dining-room where they 
ate luncheon. Afterwards they went out 
through the hotel garden, in which everything 
grows as it will, crossed the Avonmore by a 
bridge, and, passing under two ancient Saxon 
arches, were in the “ city of Glendalough.” 

“ I don’t see why they call it a city,” de- 
murred Barbara gently; “ there are only some 



Under two ancient Saxon arches. — Page 80 


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IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


81 


ruins, a round tower, and a few old walls. 
Oh, yes, there is one little house over there, 
with a baby round tower on it. ’ ’ 

“ In the time of St. Kevin, one of the great- 
est Irish saints, who is said to have been edu- 
cated with the prophet Jeremiah, Glendalough 
really was a city. It was something like Monas- 
terboice, you know; there were seven churches 
here and a great many holy men, students, 
learned scholars, and tired or sick people. Here 
St. Kevin founded his monastic establishment 
in the sixth century. After he had made King 
O’Toole’s old goose young and lively, the king 
gave him this land as a reward.” 

“ What’s that about a goose? ” demanded 
John instantly. 

6 6 Why were there seven churches ? ’ ’ said his 
sister, at the same moment. “ Oh, excuse us, 
Mrs. Pitt! We want to know so many things, 
don’t we? ” 

“ That’s all right; questions show me that 
you are interested. There were seven churches 
in several other places, too, Betty, and some- 
times seven altars in the abbeys. Seven has 
always been a mystical number. John, to an- 
swer your question, I will have to tell you a 
long legend. What! You wouldn’t object to 
hearing it now? Very well, then, we’ll sit here, 
where I can look up at the round tower. It 
is very fine, now, isn’t it? Its cap fell in 1804, 


82 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

but it’s been restored, you see. Put your coat 
under you, Betty, if you sit on the grass. My 
word! It is good not to be tormented by the 
guides; they’re usually disgusting. 

“ Well, all this country once belonged to 
jolly young King O’Toole, who used to go hunt- 
ing and fishing, enjoying himself immensely 
among these hills. But, after a long time, King 
O’Toole grew too old to hunt and ride, and 
then he became very melancholy. Things went 
badly with him until the day that he got a goose 
for his amusement. The goose was a treas- 
ure! It flew great distances, to King O’Toole’s 
delight, and it would dive for fish in the lakes. 
But, alas ! the goose grew old, too, and as lame 
as its old master; and then, when the goose 
couldn’t fly any more, King O’Toole was more 
gloomy than ever. They say he came near 
drowning himself in the lake. But one day 
he met a young man traveling through his coun- 
try and that meeting changed everything for 
the king, — and for the traveler, too. The two 
greeted each other politely and then had much 
conversation ; strangely enough, the young 
man seemed to know all about the king, — his 
name, his goods, and his discontent. And he 
offered to make the goose young, so that it 
could fly as well as it ever had in its life. That 
is, he would do this on condition that the king 
give him all the land covered by the rejuve- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 83 

nated goose in its flight. The king promised. 
Well, the stranger made a sign over the goose, 
tossed it up in the air, and away it flew, around 
all the territory belonging to King O’Toole. 
It was as young as ever, and the king laughed 
for joy. The stranger claimed all the land over 
which the goose had flown, and the king had 
to keep his promise and give it to him. Then 
the young man confessed that he was St. Kevin, 
and explained to what use he intended to put 
the land. And that’s how Glendalough came 
into existence.” 

Under the shadow of the round tower, with 
its seven windows, were the cathedral, the ab- 
bey, and several chapels ; but few traces of these 
are left to-day, — only a few low walls, a square 
doorway or two covered with vines and moss, 
and a round arch here and there. As at Monas- 
terboice, there are modern monuments and 
crosses to mark graves recently made within 
these holy precincts ; and, as at Monasterboice, 
again, there are riotous wild grasses and 
reeds. 

But “ St. Kevin’s Kitchen,” a later name 
given to one of the churches, is to-day quite 
different from the rest of the ruins. Its an- 
cient stone roof is still perfect and its steeple 
is a smaller edition of the large tower close 
by. Inside it is dark and has a dirt floor. 

“ This gives us an idea of what the ancient 


84 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

churches and houses were like, ’ ’ said Mrs. Pitt, 
as they followed the road to the lake. 

“ Where are the rest of the churches ? ” 
asked Betty. “ You said there were seven.” 

“ Well, what few remain are scattered about, 
dear ; one or two stood near the lake, I believe, 
and two we passed between the village where 
the children left us, and the hotel. Look back 
now, Betty. Do you know, I like the round 
towers better than anything else in Ireland.” 

“ I do believe I love them best, too,” agreed 
Betty; “ this one follows you, doesn’t it? You 
can’t look anywhere without seeing it, and you 
don’t want to.” 

It was lovely by the Upper Lake, late that 
afternoon. While the boys explored the shores, 
the others sat on a pile of logs, near the beach, 
now dreaming, now talking softly. The lakes 
and mountains of Glendalough have a solemn 
beauty. The mountains rise steeply from the 
rocky shores — dark and frowning. There are 
scarcely any trees to be seen; there never 
were any on the mountains, and most of those 
along the shores of the lake have been cut 
away. 

<< There aren’t many birds, either, are 
there? ” reflected Mrs. Pitt. “ I wonder if 
they all followed the larks that St. Kevin ban- 
ished because they disturbed his workmen’s 
early morning sleep, — the workmen who built 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 85 

his churches. On the side of that mountain,’ ’ 
she added, “ thirty feet up from the water, is 
St. Kevin’s Bed, a hole about four feet square. 
Legend says that the saint scooped it out of 
the rock with his finger-nails, and that he went 
there to escape an unhappy girl who had fallen 
in love with him. But she followed him and, 
in anger, he threw her backwards into the lake. 
There are many legends about St. Kevin. I’ll 
tell you more after dinner to-night, if you like. 
We must go back now. Where are the boys! ” 

They clamored for the stories after dinner 
as they sat in the musty drawing-room, made 
cheerful by a brisk fire in the grate. There 
was no fear of interruption, for they were the 
only guests in the hotel. These anecdotes Mrs. 
Pitt read from books of which she always 
seemed to have just the right ones in her travel- 
ing bag. 

“ Speaking of the gentleness of St. Kevin,” 
she said, “ Cambrensis, that historian whom 
I often quote, tells us that 4 when he retired 
to keep the forty days of Lent in fasting, medi- 
tation, and prayer, as he held his hand out of 
the window, a blackbird came and laid her four 
eggs upon it; and the saint, pitying the bird, 
and unwilling to disturb her, never drew in 
his hand, but kept it stretched out until she 
brought forth her young, and they were fully 
fledged and flew off with a chirping quartet 


86 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

of thanks to the holy man for his convayni- 
ance.’ ” 

Barbara looked up from her game of solitaire 
to remark : ‘ ‘ Then he had to eat and do every- 
thing with one hand for all that time ! Fancy ! ’ 9 

“ Over by St. Kevin’s Kitchen,” her mother 
went on, picking up another book, “ there is 
a queer shaped stone with a round, deep hole 
in the middle. They call it 1 deer stone,’ and 
this is its story: A poor man, whose wife had 
died, was left with a baby whom he had no 
idea how to care for. He went to the saint 
to ask advice and, according to one of the Glen- 
dalough guides, this was the saint’s reply: 
1 Did ye never hear tell of the lilies of the 
field,’ says he, ‘ and who clothes them? Come 
to this stone, my good man, every morning after 
airly mass,’ says he, 4 and I’ll go bail ye’ll 
get a drop for the baby ’; and sure enough at 
daybreak the poor fellow saw a deer come and 
lave a quart o ’ new milk in the stone, and that 
fed the cratur till he grew big enough and 
learned enough to be the saint’s coadjutor; but 
the stone is there to speak of the miracle this 
day ! Then one day the saint turned a woman ’s 
loaves of bread into stones, because she had 
lied to him ; and they are still to be seen some- 
where about.” 

Mrs. Pitt only read them one more tale that 
evening, — the story of how a great gap in one 



IRISH HISTORY VISIT 87 

of the Glendalough mountains had been made 
by the giant, Finn MacCool, with one blow of 
his sword, and how he and another giant used 
to shake hands across the lake. 

Before going to bed, they stole out to peep 
at the round tower in the moonlight. Mrs. Pitt 
and Betty are still uncertain whether it looked 
lovelier that night, or on the following morning 
as they were driving away, and looked back to 
see it flooded in bright sunlight. 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


BETWEEN TWO IMPERIAL HOTELS 

“ Imperial Hotel! Imperial, lady! Im- 
perial! ” 

So ‘ ‘ imperial ’ ’ was this particular head por- 
ter, speaking close to Mrs. Pitt’s ear, that be- 
fore she realized it she had allowed him to take 
her handbag. Once they were secured within 
the rickety omnibus, the porter promptly de- 
serted his sleepy captives. Vanishing for long 
periods is a favorite habit of head porters ! 

It was past ten o’clock at night, and, in the 
vicinity of the railroad station, Waterford was 
very dark. Nothing could be distinguished be- 
yond the few flickering station lights, and the 
only sound was the boisterous singing of a 
popular song by a group of waiting newsboys. 
After what seemed a long delay, they finally 
rumbled over rough pavements, to be escorted 
into a forlorn, deserted hotel. 

An untidy chambermaid led them up several 
flights of stairs, some wide, some narrow and 
winding; at last she opened the door of a huge 
room, in which stood two beds, one in shabby- 
genteel hangings and canopy, the other quite 
88 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 89 

unadorned. There were many heavy pieces of 
furniture, faded red hangings at the windows, 
and a hell-rope with a tassel. Mrs. Pitt re- 
marked that the room would do, and she and 
the girls said an amused good-night as John 
and Philip were led away to no one knew what 
strange quarters. 

“ You and Barbara will sleep in the big bed, 
won’t you, Mrs. Pitt? ” Betty’s voice was 
a bit troubled. “ I’d rather have this plain lit- 
tle bed; I’d feel more at home in it. The other 

is like — like I really believe it belonged 

to Brian Boru! ” 

And so, after much laughter over their queer 
bedroom, and several unanswered pulls at the 
bell-rope, they tumbled into bed to sleep until 
the bright sun, streaming in between the thick 
red curtains, woke them. 

After breakfast they went out for a stroll 
about quaint Waterford. It may actually have 
been founded in the year 155, and certainly was 
an important colony of the Danes when the 
English invaders came in 1171. 

“ Not far away is a point of land called Ba- 
ginbun Point, where ‘ Irelande was lost and won ’ 
when the first Englishman stepped upon Irish 
soil,” said Mrs. Pitt. “ As Strongbow’s ships 
were sailing into Waterford harbor, there was a 
tower upon one hand and a church upon the 
other. Being told they were ‘ The Tower of 


90 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Hook and the Church of Crook,’ Strongbow 
said, ‘ I will take Waterford by Hook or by 
Crook.’ ” 

4 4 And that’s why we say 4 by hook or by 
crook ’ to-day ! ’ ’ finished Betty quickly. 
‘ ‘ Strongbow invented it ! I ’ll always remember 
that now.” 

As they started for a walk on the quays 
along the River Suir, they saw Reginald’s 
Tower, almost opposite their hotel. 

“ Did old Strongbow build it? ” asked John. 

“ It is supposed to have been here even be- 
fore Strongbow came; and it may have been 
built in 1003 by a Dane, named Reginald. 
Strongbow used it as a fortress, and since that 
it has been a mint and a jail. I don’t know 
what they use it for to-day, Philip, or, indeed, 
whether they use it at all. Let ’s find the cathe- 
dral now, up on this hill, near the old French 
church. ’ ’ 

Passing the tower, its rough stones appear- 
ing as solid to-day as when the English in- 
vaders captured the town, they walked along 
the broad street by the river. Large ships were 
drawn up to the quays to be loaded or unloaded, 
and there were a number of warehouses, yet no 
business seemed to be done. There is a sleepy, 
lazy air about the quays and the small shops. 
Shawled women, having brought in produce 
from the country, were leisurely repacking 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


9i 


their donkey carts with a few provisions to 
carry home, while the men leaned against sunny 
walls, smoking and chatting. There was hur- 
rying about, orders were given near the ships, 
there were shouts and the braying of donkeys, 
yet no one seemed to accomplish much. Ap- 
parently the old proverb, “ All bustle and no 
business, like a Waterford merchant,” still 
holds good. 

The cathedral is stately and so old that it 
is sometimes reported to have been built by 
the Danes in the eleventh century. Close by, 
on the side of a hill, is the old Huguenot church, 
once a Franciscan monastery, in part of which 
the exiled Huguenots worshiped. The great- 
great-grandfather of Lord Roberts was an ar- 
chitect of Waterford. He married Susanne 
Sautelle, a Huguenot girl, and the two are 
buried here. Later in the day, when on a drive 
through the town, their jarvey pointed ou,t 
Lord Roberts’s estate, but told the party that 
the general very seldom occupied it. 

“ Here’s something funny,” declared Betty, 
that afternoon. They were on the train once 
more, and Betty had been reading her favorite 
“ Child’s History of Ireland,” by Joyce. 
“ The book says that the first frogs in Ireland 
were found near Waterford in the sixteenth 
century; and that there were no snakes or 
toads. Of course I knew there weren’t any 


92 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

snakes, because St. Patrick wouldn't have them. 
But where could that first frog have come 
from! " It was a question that no one was 
able to answer. 

It was early evening when they arrived at 
Limerick Junction, which consists of a single 
station with a connecting hotel, the two set 
down in the midst of the fertile fields of County 
Tipperary. To their great disappointment, it 
was too late to catch a train to Cashel, so they 
ate their dinner in a room crowded with noisy 
commercial travelers, and were then shown 
to some clean little bedrooms, lighted by 
candles. 

“ My word! " exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, taking 
off her hat. “ I've been in many a worse ho- 
tel, even if this one has railway tracks on 
both sides of it. Probably there are very few 
trains at night." 

Cheerfully they went to bed, but not to 
sleep, for the noise soon became unbearable. 
Mrs. Pitt had been right ; there were not many 
through trains, but men seemed to be moving 
engines back and forth, and around and about, 
during the whole night. An3 even little Irish 
engines can puff and pant and let off steam! 
Never attempt to sleep at Limerick Junction 
is the advice of Mrs. Pitt and her party. 

One of those troublesome engines carried 
them the few miles to Goold's Cross on the 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


93 

following morning ; there, after some delay, they 
boarded another train for Cashel. 

“ That Dublin chauffeur would have got us 
there in twenty minutes/ ’ remarked John, in 
disgust. 

“ Irish trains are rather exasperating/’ ad- 
mitted Mrs. Pitt, who never really con- 
demned anything. “ They amble along at any 
speed that happens to suit the engineer’s 
mood, and they seldom care to go very 
far. They travel a little distance in one 
direction, and then passengers must change 
to another train and continue in a slightly 
different direction. One needs plenty of time 
to go about Ireland. Of course, we all 
know that trains never think of starting on 
time. It was in Kate Douglas Wiggin’s book, 
‘ Penelope’s Irish Experiences/ I think, that 
the engine had ‘ gone cold on the engineer/ 
and there was such a long delay that a rail- 
way official was finally approached upon the 
subject. He seemed so unintelligent that Penel- 
ope impatiently asked, 1 Is it possible you don’t 
know the time the trains are going? ’ The man 
stared: ‘ Begorra, how should I? Faix, the 
thrains don’t always be knowin’ thimselves! ’ ” 

At this point their particular train slid softly 
alongside the Cashel station. Forty-five min- 
utes were to elapse before it would again turn 
its head towards Goold’s Cross Junction; Mrs. 


94 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Pitt knew that she and her party must be on 
board, or else they would probably spend the 
whole day at Cashel and never get to Holy 
Cross Abbey at all. Therefore, a bargain w^s 
made with a jarvey who soon carried the party 
off at a gallop towards Cashel village. A great 
rock rises steep from the plain below, and on 
its summit are the gray ruins of palace, chapels, 
abbey, and round tower. 

44 Cashel was the home of the ancient kings 
of Munster, ’ ’ explained Mrs. Pitt. 4 4 Idols were 
worshiped here in the king’s palace, and the 
4 shee,’ or fairies, had their share of worship, 
too. 4 Shee ’ were believed to be the Dedan- 
nans who, when they were conquered by other 
invaders, went to live underground and be- 
came fairies. Each Dedannan chief selected 
a green mound, ( 4 shee ’ in Irish), or fairy hill; 
these are usually old burial mounds or hills 
with raths on top, like that at New Grange, you 
know. The fairies, as well as their dwellings, 
were called 4 shee.’ The name Cashel is 
Gaelic for a circular stone fortress. 

44 A few Irish peasants still believe that de- 
lightful legend of the origin of the fairies. An 
old blind man, by the roadside, once told it 
thus: 4 The fairies,’ he said, 4 I will tell 
you what the fairies are. God moved from His 
seat, and when he turned around, Lucifer was 
in it. Then Hell was made in a minute. God 



“Cashel was the home of the ancient kings of Munster.” 

Page 94. 


























































































































































\ 














































































IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


95 

moved his hand and swept away thousands of 
angels. And it was in His hand to sweep away 
thousands more. “ Oh, God Almighty, stop! ” 
said the Angel Gabriel. ‘ 1 Heaven will be swept 
clean out.” “ I’ll stop,” said God Almighty; 
“ Them that are in Heaven, let them remain in 
Heaven ; them that are in Hell, let them remain 
in Hell, and them that are between Heaven and 
Hell, let them remain in the air.” And the 
angels that remained between Heaven and Hell 
are the Fairies.’ ” 

Mrs. Pitt had then to stop talking while they 
drove along the wretched streets of Cashel, 
passing through the market place where a cattle 
fair was in progress. It was a relief to be out 
of reach of the jostling, excited animals with 
their threatening horns, and, as the horse scram- 
bled up the stony road to Cashel Rock, Mrs. 
Pitt continued: 

“ St. Patrick converted to Christianity a 
ruling king of Munster, and later Murkertagh 
O’Brien granted 1 Cashel of the Kings ’ to the 
church to be the seat of an archbishop, with a 
cathedral and a monastic school. Thus Cashel, 
the famous residence of pagan kings, was out- 
shone by Cashel, the center of Christian reli- 
gion and education. All these buildings, with 
the exception of the round tower, are of Chris- 
tian date.” 

Near the gateway by which visitors enter is 


9 6 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

an ancient statne of St. Patrick; it rests upon 
a great stone where, tradition says, the minor 
kings of Munster paid tribute money to their 
superior king. Passing this by, one finds a 
wilderness of gray ruins, now crumbling and 
bare but once beautiful in architecture and 
elaborate carving. All parts of the cathedral, 
the palace keep, and the round tower are worth 
examination, but even more so is Cormac ’s 
Chapel, built by Cormac MacArt in 1127. Stu- 
dents of such things call this the “ oldest con- 
secrated chapel in Ireland.’ ’ 

“ See the beautiful doorway,” began Mrs. 
Pitt, calling attention to the chapel’s finest 
points ; t 6 the triple arch is marvelously carved 
in zigzag and beaded design. What a strange 
creature, there in the center ! It looks like an 
enormous beast at which a man on horseback is 
aiming an arrow from his long bow. Inside, the 
roof is rounding and vaulted, and there are 
graceful pillars, carved capitals, and other 
decorations. A wonderful place, isn’t it, Betty? 
Over there is a bit of Cormac MacArt ’s own 

carved sarcophagus, and 0 dear ! the 

driver says it is time for us to go! ” 

At most inappropriate, breakneck speed, they 
whirled down the hill, through the village, and 
over the level stretch to the station. Then 
some of them turned to look back for the last 
time at the historic rock, the round tower, and 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


97 


the lofty, irregular mass of the cathedral vividly 
outlined against the sky. What an extraor- 
dinary scene there must have been at Cashel 
in the eleventh century! Once again Betty 
wished she had the power to go back hundreds 
of years to see how things really were. But, 
of course, she would reserve the right of a 
speedy return to the twentieth century, she re- 
minded them. 

“ Here’s Goold’s Cross again! That means 
another change of trains for us! ” John let 
down the window with a bang and, putting out 
his hand, opened the door. 

They were glad that the train for Thurles 
and the north was due in ten minutes; it was 
as good as the station master’s word, too. 
At the town of Thurles they had a late 
luncheon and then climbed into a jaunting-car 
for the drive of three miles, through cheerful 
country, to Holy Cross Abbey. The fields are 
green and the cattle good, having rich graz- 
ing. The farmhouses, with their barns and 
sheds built around a square yard, look almost 
prosperous. There are no bogs or stony fields, 
but wide, fertile lowlands with hawthorn hedges 
marking the boundaries. Mrs. Pitt told them 
that this part of County Tipperary is known 
as the “ Golden Vale,” and that it is a great 
dairy district, where butter is made for the 
English markets. 


98 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ Holy Cross Abbey is said to have been 
erected to preserve a piece of the true cross 
which was sent by a Pope to a king of Ireland, 
grandson of Brian Boru. The abbey became 
rich and powerful, its abbot, a peer in Parlia- 
ment, being known as Earl of Holy-cross. It 
is very much of a ruin now, however; many 
people think it the finest monastic ruin in Ire- 
land. That’s wliy I wanted you to see it. Here 
we are. Come along, John; this is the way! ” 

An hour was spent in wandering about the 
lovely ruins, admiring the roof of the chancel 
where the fan-vaulting is so perfect, or climb- 
ing up tiny steps used by the monks to reach 
apartments over the choir. Moss, grasses, and 
tiny wild flowers have helped to make it all 
more lovely in its decay; in the nave of the 
cathedral some of the gravestones are scarcely 
visible above the tall grass. Just outside the 
east window flows the “ gentle Suir,” and the 
rushing of this little river was for some time 
the only sound to be heard. 

All at once they were startled by the shrill 
bray of a donkey, mingled with the horn 
of a motor-car; and, just as Mrs. Pitt stepped 
out of a transept door, she came face to face 
with a friend from London. There were sur- 
prised greetings and rapid explanations. 

“ You say that you are alone? Quite by 
yourself in this lovely Irish country? Oh, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


99 


you left friends in Cork? I see! We’ll be in 
Cork to-night, if the trains favor us. Oh, no, 
dear! I couldn’t think of it! There are five of 
us, you know. Just fancy ! 9 9 

But of course Mrs. Pitt relented, and, to the 
children’s delight, the jarvey was paid and sent 
back to Thurles. They had accepted an invi- 
tation to go on to Cork in the motor-car. 

It is to be feared that the English lady’s 
visit to the abbey was somewhat marred by 
the excitement of her party. John, especially, 
was in a hurry to be oft, and persisted in 
making suggestive remarks about the lateness 
of the hour and the darkness and roughness of 
Irish roads, in spite of nudges from his 
sister. Motor coats were brought out, and veils 
from various pockets, and at last they started, 
whirling luxuriously on towards the south and 
Cork. Once they stopped at a wayside inn 
for tea, bread and butter, and jam, but this only 
occupied a few moments, and then they con- 
tinued through more pretty country, always 
with the sunset sky to light them. 

There was a glimmer left when they came 
in sight of a hill upon which a sharp bit of ruin 
stood outlined. 

“ Isn’t that Kilcolman Castle? ” asked Mrs. 
Pitt. 

A map showed them that this was indeed the 
remains of Edmund Spenser’s castle, which was 


ioo JOHN AND BETTY’S 

bnmed during one of the many Irish rebellions 
of Elizabeth’s reign. The poet, his wife, and 
children, barely escaped the flames, and fled to 
Cork. No Englishman was very safe in Ireland 
in those days, and the destruction of this home, 
where parts of the “ Faerie Queene ” were 
written, was one more disappointment for the 
luckless poet. 

“ Doneraile is not far away,” Mrs. Pitt’s 
friend told them. “ We motored there last 
week and had a walk through the old place 
which was once a splendid demesne. There are 
still fine trees, drives, terraces, and gardens, 
but they have no care and will soon be entirely 
overgrown with weeds. Fancy ! The place has 
always belonged to the St. Leger family, 
you know, and the house is really rather 
good style, but the present lord never goes 
there, I am told. It was Mistress Betty St. 
Leger (she was afterwards the Honorable 
Mrs. Aldworth), who was admitted to Free- 
masonry. She hid inside a clock at Doneraile, 
and from there overheard the men at their 
mysterious meetings. She was finally discov- 
ered, and, for their own protection, the men 
let her join the order. It was clever of her, 
wasn’t it? ” 

“ Ripping! ” said John. “ She’d have led 
the Suffragettes, wouldn’t she? ” 

It was so dark when they passed Blarney that 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


IOI 


they had no glimpse of the castle ; but what did 
that matter when they would be driving out 
from Cork on the following day? 

And so they drew up at the familiar Imperial 
Hotel, in its narrow street. “ Florrie,” the 
head porter, greeted them with low bows and 
sufficient ceremony to indicate that in his opin- 
ion the Imperial, “ for elegance and comfort ” 
still “ vies with any hotel in the kingdom .’ 9 So 
wrote Mr. and Mrs. Hall, famous Irish travelers 
in the early part of the last century. John and 
Betty could not entirely agree with them, but 
they had a fondness for the Imperial, having 
there eaten their first luncheon on Irish soil. 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


SEEING CORK AND BLARNEY CASTLE 

“ It's the bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.” 

Father Prout, the celebrated poet of Cork, 
did well to praise the music of Shandon Bells. 
Whether the visitor stands within or without 
the church while the old sexton mounts to the 
loft and slowly pulls the bell-rope, the sound 
is sure to be musical and soft. As Shandon 
Church is not a Catholic church, it could only 
have been Father Prout ’s general interest, as 
a lover of Cork, which made him compare its 
chimes so favorably with those of Notre Dame 
at Paris, St. Peter’s at Rome, or of St. Sophia 
at Constantinople. 

There is nothing else remarkable about Shan- 
don Church. To be sure, it possesses an old 
font which attracted Mrs. Pitt’s attention. 

“ Do you use it still? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, we takes ’em as we finds ’em. Trade’s 
pretty slack now. There’s been only two bap- 
tisms in six weeks ! ’ ’ and, shaking his head in 
102 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


103 

disapproval, the caretaker pocketed his fee and 
opened the door for his visitors. 

They walked along the streets in the spring 
sunshine, now stopping for a moment on one 
of the high arched bridges, now loitering near 
a quay where children were playing or beg- 
gars sunning themselves. Left behind were the 
busy, broad quays; they saw no more smart 
shops, fine houses, or pretty ladies driving their 
pony carts. Here were narrow, steeper streets, 
closely lined with the thatched cabins which 
shelter the poor. Women slouched in the door- 
ways — ugly, tousled-haired women, whose chil- 
dren were unspeakably ragged. 

“ Look,” said Betty, “ they can have birds, 
even if they are poor. See how many bird- 
cages there are on the walls, up under the 
eaves! It’s funny to see them there, isn’t 
it? Perhaps it’s because they can’t have 
any gardens that they like the birds so 
much! ” 

By and by they came upon a schoolhouse 
where troops of boys were tumbling into the 
courtyard, some already busy with marbles on 
the pavement. Just across the way, standing 
among trees, with green grass and flowering 
shrubs around it, was the cathedral of St. Finn 
Bar, locally pronounced “ S’nf ’n Bar.” 

“ It’s quite modern,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, 
1 ‘ although there are a few old bits, of course, — 


104 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

that Saxon door and the tower of the steeple. 
There was an ancient church here once, you 
know, and a round, tower, part of the religious 
establishment of St. Finn Bar, ‘ the white- 
haired,’ in which there were seven hundred 
priests, monks, and students. This saint is said 
to have founded Cork, although the honor is 
also claimed for the Danes of the ninth or 
tenth century. No, John, you need not go in- 
side. I believe that the tomb of the Hon. Mrs. 
Aldworth, the lady Freemason, is there, but 
that’s of no special interest to us, I suppose. 
You want to look at it, Betty? I’ll go along, 
then.” 

When they came out, John was nowhere to be 
seen, but soon he emerged from behind an im- 
posing gate post, opposite the cathedral en- 
trance. He had been trespassing, exploring the 
beautiful grounds and residence of one of the 
churchmen. 

After a while they came to a bluff from which 
they looked across the Kiver Lee to a suburb, 
with pretty houses up and down the hillside. 
Old Cork is in the valley, but its modern home 
section and its suburbs are on high ground. 
Descending the hill, they took a tram back to 
the center of the town. 

“ There’s that old book and print shop! ” 
cried Betty suddenly, when they were in Pat- 
rick Street. “ And Mr. Massey, who keeps it, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


105 

is so nice. May I go in again, Mrs. Pitt, just 
for five minutes? ” 

Mrs. Pitt and Barbara going with her, 
found it a delightful, musty shop. Mrs. 
Pitt bought one or two books which she con- 
sidered great bargains ; as for Betty, she would 
have spent all her money if Mrs. Pitt had not 
hurried her away. 

In the meantime, John and Philip had made 
a discovery. 

‘ ‘ I say, Mother, you never told us they have 
inside jaunting-cars, too. We saw one; it was 
frightfully jolly! ” 

“ You ought to see it,” seconded John. 
“ There’s a cover, and the seats are inside, 
facing each other. But it tips so that the 
people almost fall out. Look, look! There 
comes one now! See it, Betty! ” 

“ It’s convenient when it rains,” said Mrs. 
Pitt, laughing with the children, “ but it is 
difficult to stay in, especially going up hill, un- 
less one is accustomed to it as the people of 
Cork are. It tips alarmingly on its two wheels, 
and has no door to hold one in. I’ve seen pas- 
sengers (‘ fares,’ the jarveys call them) fall 
out; the driver really has the only comfortable 
place. Come; shall we go back for luncheon 
now? ” 

The majority of the buildings in Cork — in 
fact, in the entire south of Ireland — look older 


io6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

than they actually are. Many are out of 
repair, having a forlorn look. There is a 
pathetically shabby, one-roomed library op- 
posite the Imperial Hotel; and the hotel itself 
is a strange combination of attempted gran- 
deur and innate ugliness, with traces of wear 
and neglect. A wide doorway, a spacious hall 
and stairway, lead from one of the main streets ; 
but the door is never opened now, its panes of 
glass are broken, and the hall and stairs are 
given over to the spiders and used only as 
storage places for the bicycles of the “ boots ” 
or head porter. Nowadays the visitor enters 
by a low doorway in a side street, and to 
reach his huge, damp room, he may have to 
grope his way around dark corners, along nar- 
row halls, and up winding stairs. If he is at 
all fastidious, he may be thankful that there 
are no windows to light his dusty path. 

While they were waiting for luncheon to be 
served, they stood by the writing-room fire as 
Mrs. Pitt told them a bit about Father Mathew, 
of whom Cork is justly proud. 

“ He wouldn’t let men drink, would he, 
Mother? ” Philip questioned. “ I think I’ve 
read about him.” 

“ That’s it, Philip. It was Father Mathew 
who started the great temperance movement 
which has done much good for the Irish, the 
English and Scotch, as well. Father Mathew 



It’s convenient when it rains, but it is difficult to stay in, especially going up hill. 

Page 105. 



IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


107 


was born in Cork in 1790, and here he became 
a much-loved priest. Gracious, kind, and sym- 
pathetic, he had much influence over the peo- 
ple. In his time drunkenness was almost uni- 
versal in Ireland ; it was looked upon practically 
as a virtue, especially with the higher classes, 
among whom no host would permit a guest to 
depart sober. Father Mathew, realizing how 
this appalling state of affairs was injuring the 
Irish, started a campaign against intemperance. 
At first the movement was confined to the city 
of Cork, but soon Father Mathew’s success was 
so great that he traveled all over Ireland, lec- 
turing to great crowds and making converts. 
Some went to great extremes; a few would 
drink water only from a cup because a glass 
might have been used for something stronger. 
But the country was vastly improved by Father 
Mathew’s teaching, even if there were some 
who went back to the old drinking habits again. 
Men almost worshiped Father Mathew; and 
thousands agreed with the peasant who said: 
6 He was a great man. . . . There couldn’t be 
better than what he was.’ ” 

After luncheon, “ Florrie,” the stout, red- 
faced head porter at the Imperial Hotel, called 
an outside-car, tucked the rugs around his 
guests, and ordered the jarvey to drive to Blar- 
ney Castle. A tram-car line now runs to the 
small manufacturing town of Blarney; there 


108 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

are plenty of motor-cars for hire, too, but Mrs. 
Pitt thought the old-fashioned, jolting way of 
travel best. Besides, the drivers always have 
such nice stories to tell. 

“ What’ll it do to a fellow,” John demanded 
— “ kissing the stone, I mean? What do they 
kiss it for, anyhow? ” 

“ Shure, ’n’ hev yez never heard a person 
talk, belike, what’s kissed the Blarney Stone? ” 

“ Say, Mrs. Pitt, what does it do? ” asked 
John, turning from the twinkling-eyed driver 
who he felt might be guying him. 

“ Whoever kisses the stone is supposed to 
buy the gift of eloquence, ’ ’ she replied. ‘ 1 The 
story dates back to the fifteenth century, when 
Cormac MacCarthy the Strong, builder of Blar- 
ney Castle, one day saved an old woman from 
drowning. She was tremendously gratified and 
promised to give Cormac a golden tongue with 
wonderful power to influence everybody who 
heard it ; but in order to possess this, she said, 
he must kiss a particular stone in the parapet 
of Blarney Castle, five feet below the top. The 
feat was dangerous, but Cormac accomplished 
it, immediately coming into possession of the 
promised gift. Since that time everybody who 
has visited the old ruin wants to kiss the same 
stone.” 

“ You bet I will,” John announced, with de- 
termination. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 109 

Mrs. Pitt did not reply; she had dreaded 
their visit to Blarney for this very reason. 
Betty remarked slyly that she didn’t believe 
her brother needed the gift. 

When they had traveled several miles of the 
pretty road through the green valley of the 
Lee, their driver, who had been silent for some 
time, swung around in his seat, and, pointing 
with his whip, said: 

il That’s where Sir John Coldthurst lives, in 
that old tower amongst thim trees, beyant. It ’s 
his honor that owns Blarney Castle, milady. 
Him and another of the genthry, they was after 
discussing wan while how deep was Blarney 
Lake. They was always a-disagreeing till they 
decided they’d sind down two divers. They 
done so, themselves a-standing near the lake, 
a-watching. They kept a-waiting and watching, 
but never did they see thim divers come up. 
And eight weeks after, ’twas, milady, Sir 
John he had a letther from thim, and they was 
in Australia ! Now, did yez iver hear the like 
o’ that? ” 

John expressed his astonishment by a whis- 
tle, and the others were properly impressed by 
the wondrous tale. The driver was evidently 
ready to tell more stories, but a motor-car just 
then came in sight and made it necessary for 
him to give his entire attention to his horse. 

4 4 This neighborhood is full of descendants 


I IO 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

of the MacCarthy who built the castle,” Mrs. 
Pitt told them. “ Each believes that the castle 
belongs to him and confidently expects the 
demesne to come back one day into the hands 
of the family that was forced to forfeit it. A 
MacCarthy may be plowing a field under the 
shadow of his ancestral castle, but he never 
loses his pride or his feeling of rightful pos- 
sessor.” 

Leaving their car at a tiny railway station, 
they crossed the tracks and took a path through 
the woods, near a little stream. In a few mo- 
ments they found themselves in an open field, 
and there rose ruined Blarney Castle. 

Two of the children promptly took snapshots 
of it, for the more familiar a thing is the bet- 
ter most of us love it. And from this side the 
high keep of Blarney is certainly picturesque 
enough ! 

“ Come on,” shouted John; “ I’m for climb- 
ing to the top! ” 

He was off at a run, the others slowly follow- 
ing. Skirting the crumbling walls of later ad- 
ditions to the castle, they entered the keep, 
always the oldest portion of a castle and that 
which lasts the longest. They lost their breath 
climbing the winding stairs, steep and uneven, 
but at last they reached the top. 

Betty gave a little scream: “ Oh, there’s 
somebody doing it now! It isn’t John, is it! ” 



“ Shure, ’n’ hev yez never heard a person talk, belike, 
what’s kissed the Blarney Stone ? ” — Page 108 . 




IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


hi 


It was not John, not yet. He and Philip were 
dose spectators, however, Philip placidly inter- 
ested, John hugely enjoying it and impatient 
to be at it himself. No sooner had the tourist 
righted himself, flushed and panting, than J ohn 
took a step forward. 

“ I’m next,” said he; “ somebody hold my 
feet! ” 

Some men laughed and good-naturedly of- 
fered to assist. Betty and Mrs. Pitt said noth- 
ing, well knowing how useless it would be to 
remonstrate. So John took oft his cap and 
lay on his back, his head towards an opening 
in the floor next the parapet. With a man 
holding each foot, he then grasped an iron bar 
put there for this purpose. Swinging his head 
down under the parapet, he reached up and just 
managed to kiss the outer face of the famous 
stone. 

It sounds easy, and indeed it was all over 
in a moment. John was lithe and strong, so 
he easily pulled himself back, standing before 
them, triumphant and happy. 

4 4 It’s a cinch! ” he cried, glancing at his 
audience and then at Philip. “ Going to try 
it f Gee, but you ’re a long way from the ground 
when you look down! ” 

Betty had not looked down, but she did now 
and shuddered. 


1 12 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

44 Smooth your hair, John, and put on your 
cap,” she said sternly. 

4 4 Call those chaps back; I’m good for it,” 
said Philip, but his mother objected. One ad- 
venturer was enough, she thought. 

Once the stone fell, but it was promptly re- 
stored to its position and secured by iron bars. 
On it is a Latin inscription, 4 4 Cormac Macarthy 
Fortis Me Fieri Fecit, a.d. 1446. ’ ’ The popular 
translation reads : 

“ Cormae Macarthy, bould as bricks, 

Made me in Fourteen Forty-six.” 

There are people who insist that this is not 
the original Blarney Stone at all. Others think 
the stone genuine, but hold that it has been 
removed from its original position. But one 
who kisses the stone scoffs at all doubts and 
questionings. J ohn, for example, was quite sat- 
isfied that he had kissed the one, only, and 
original Blarney Stone, and secretly waited for 
words of eloquence to pour from his mouth. 

In their excitement they almost forgot to 
admire the views of the surrounding country, 
including the 4 4 groves of Blarney,” which 
4 4 are so charming ’ ’ both according to the song 
and in reality, and Blarney Lake in which the 
family treasure is sunk, never to be restored un- 
til a MacCarthy is once more lord of the de- 
mesne. Strange things, they say, happen on 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


ii3 

the shores of this lake. There are countless 
fairy rings, which the privileged may see in the 
grass, the kind that no amount of plowing will 
destroy; and here, in the summer dawn, come 
forth enchanted cows, snow-white and very 
beautiful. 

Having descended the spiral stairs, now and 
then with some difficulty making room for an- 
other visitor to pass upwards, they explored 
the castle ’s ruined kitchen and banqueting hall. 
All too soon they had to return to the wait- 
ing car. They drove back to the city by the 
other bank of the river, and had gone more than 
half-way when Betty suddenly cried out : 

“ Why, John, you talk exactly the same, even 
if you did kiss the Blarney Stone ! ’ 9 


CHAPTER NINE 


SEEING YOUGHAL AND THE RIVER BLACKWATER 

“ Ireland’s a hard nut to crack, and they 
haven’t finished it yet! ” said the little gray- 
haired lady who shared their compartment in 
the Youghal train, proceeding to tell Mrs. Pitt 
and the rest what she meant by this discourag- 
ing statement about her native land. 

“ Ah, my dear, it’s a sweet land. I know 
that well, now that I’ve left it to five in Eng- 
land, at Cheltenham, dear, and can only come 
back now and then to pay visits. Just look 
there! ” she exclaimed, glancing out the win- 
dow at an especially picturesque village. 
“ Isn’t it sweetly pretty? I know all this coun- 
try so well, dear, for I lived not far from 
Youghal, — where you’re going, I suppose. I 
love this land, and I know, too, what troubles 
its people have had.” 

She spoke of potatoes having been the main- 
stay of Ireland since Sir Walter Raleigh had 
first planted them in his garden at Youghal, 
more than two hundred years ago. Many per- 
sons question whether the devotion of the Irish 
to the potato may not have done them more 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 115 

harm than good. Their dependence has been 
placed almost wholly upon this one crop, and, 
now and again, when the terrible blight has 
swept the potato fields, famine has followed and 
such suffering as we who always have plenty 
to eat cannot appreciate. 

4 ‘ Seems bad enough to have nothing but po- 
tatoes to eat,” remarked John. 

The most dreadful of all Ireland’s famines 
was in 1846 and 1847. So many died of fevers 
at the poorhouses that, supported by the gov- 
ernment, a Mr. Trench offered the starving peo- 
ple free passage to America. Two hundred 
were taken to Cork each week. Large numbers 
left their native land. Mr. Trench had offered 
work, at fair wages, to those who preferred that 
to leaving their homes, but most of them were 
too weak to accomplish much. Thus the ex- 
periment failed, and emigration was the only 
solution. 

“ And now they’re all policemen and mayors 
in America,” put in John. 

The Irish lady laughed. “ The Irish do get 
on marvelously in your country,” she said. 
“ That is Killeagh station we are just passing,” 
she pointed out. “ Near here they had land 
disturbances not long since. The Ponsonbys, 
a great family, owned many thousands of acres. 
Their income used to be as much as from 
£10,000 to £20,000 a year! Then these land 


ii 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

troubles began ; certain peasants refused to pay 
rents, and so other excellent farmers were sent 
down from Belfast. But the former tenants 
harassed them, forced them to join the Land 
League, and forbade their paying rents. Ter- 
rible times followed; houses were unroofed or 
burned and men were attacked in the fields. 
The overseer had to ride about on horseback so 
that he could see over the hedges and discover 
if there were men lurking there to attack him. 
At last the Ponsonbys grew so poor that they 
were obliged to leave their home and go into 
lodgings in London. I remember there were 
two daughters in the family, lovely ladies. At 
first they had two rooms, and then they could 
afford only one. Former tenants, afraid to pay 
rent openly, sent money in secret to help the 
family. There were many such cases. Now 
the estates are being divided up among small 
farmers. Many young men, when they come 
into their estates, have nothing; scores of ladies 
of former wealth and position have actually had 
to go into the workhouses. The sufferings have 
not been wholly on the workingman’s side. So, 
I say Ireland’s a hard nut to crack and they’re 
not finished with her yet. Here we are at 
Youghal. Say you’ve met me when you’re at 
St. Mary’s Church, my dear; I’m well known 
there. My name is Smith.” 

The kind lady in the old-fashioned bonnet 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 117 

and jet-trimmed mantle bustled away with 
friends, while Mrs. Pitt and her party walked 
along the road which leads towards the town. 
A strong wind from the sea prevented them 
from making rapid headway, but at last they 
had passed the long row of villas and lodgings 
and had entered the one long street of Youghal. 

“ What’s this! ” inquired Barbara. “ See 
the little gate with a bell, and roses growing 
over the wall. Oh, is it the convent where they 
make lace! ” 

For answer her mother rang the bell at the 
porter’s gate. 

“ I’ll buy some cuffs and a collar — real Irish 
— for my new dress,” announced Betty. 
“ Mother said I might; it won’t cost as much 
as at home.” 

A gentle sister met them at the door of the 
Presentation Convent and conducted them 
through several long rooms, where women and 
girls were making lace. Sometimes she called 
a worker forward. One poor girl, a little older 
than Betty, with a crooked back and a wan face, 
held out an exquisite veil of point lace; it was 
soon to be worn by a rich London bride, she 
told them. When Betty had selected her collar 
and cuffs and Mrs. Pitt had made a few pur- 
chases, they thanked the black-gowned sister 
and left the convent by the little gate. 

“ The lace is beautiful,” Betty reflected, 


1 1 8 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ but they squint so, and hold it too close to 
their eyes. Some of them look white and 
thin; I’m afraid they get very tired of making 
lace.” 

“ Yes, but they must earn money, you know, 
and at least the crippled ones could not do it 
in any other way. The sisters are kind to them, 
teaching them and paying them well, and the 
convent is a more comfortable place in which to 
work than their houses would be. It’s quite 
true, though, that their eyes often give out.” 

Youghal’s main street has several hotels, 
many little shops, a school in an ancient town 
hall, and a picturesque arched clock gate- 
way. The street is narrow and was filled 
by two-wheeled butchers’ carts, pony chaises 
in which ladies had driven into town from their 
country places, bicycles, and an occasional 
motor-car occupying more than its share of 
space. On they strolled, walking in the street 
when the sidewalks were overcrowded by 
ragged children. At last they turned to the 
left, up a steep alley which ended at the gate 
of ancient St. Mary’s Church. 

They entered by a low door at one side of 
the gate, and were walking towards the church 
when an exclamation from John made them 
stop. He was standing by the gate, his back 
towards the others. 

“ Oh, John, have you cut yourself with that 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


119 

awful knife you’re always playing with? ” 
called his sister, running towards him. 

“ No, hang it! Worse than that! It’s my 
camera. I dropped it, and now the thing won’t 
go. Bother, Betty! Let a fellow alone, will 
you? How could I help it if the strap slipped 
off my shoulder? ” 

The beloved camera was a little bent, but Mrs. 
Pitt thought the damage was not serious. She 
told John to go back to a photographer in the 
High Street to see if it could be fixed. Philip 
would go with him. Meanwhile the others sat 
upon flat gravestones in the silent, green old 
churchyard, enjoying the delightful picture 
made by the church amid the great trees, 
against the background of a steep bank dotted 
with tombs. At the top of the bank is a part 
of the old town wall of Youghal, its stones over- 
grown with moss and vines. There is peace 
and an indescribable charm about the pre- 
cincts. 

Betty, who had been looking up at the lovely 
tracery of the east window, at last sighed 
deeply. “ It’s so beautiful,” she said. “ Is it 
really as old as it feels, Mrs. Pitt? ” 

“ How old do you feel that it is? ” 

“ Ages and ages.” 

“ Well, the transept is known as the oldest 
building with a roof in Ireland. Some of the 
pillars, supporting the arches, rest on the lids 


120 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

of stone coffins of the eighth or ninth century. 
Probably the architecture is chiefly of the 
thirteenth century, though, of course, there have 
been restorations. Then, there’s a half-broken 
Norman arch to which no one attempts to at- 
tach a date. But you shall see it for yourselves. 
Here come the boys. Well, John, what suc- 
cess? ” 

“ I’ll show you. Here, I’ll take you sitting 
on that moldy old stone.” Snap and wind. 
“ That’s all right.” 

Then they went into the church. 

The stained glass of St. Mary’s east window 
is very fine, letting in the light upon the heavy 
beams of the ceiling, I earns of black Irish oak. 
Near the oaken pulpit is a bit of ancient tiling, 
said to be a thousand years old; two of the 
tombs are of equal age; one of them, the boys 
discovered with great interest, is said to be 
that of a warrior who fought with Strongbow. 
An old oak door, much chipped and worn, which 
leads into the Boyle chapel, has been in place 
for at least a thousand years. 

u There’s himself and all the Boyle kids,” 
said John, as they came in sight of the huge, 
elaborate monument which the first Earl of 
Cork designed for himself. His own figure 
is in the center; a first wife is pictured on his 
left with her one child at her feet; on the earl’s 
right kneels his second wife, the effigies of her 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


12 1 


numerous children extending across the bot- 
tom of the tomb. 

“ They wanted to give us the whole family 
history, didn’t they? ” suggested Barbara. 

“ Here’s the tomb of that amazing Countess 
of Desmond, who lived to be one hundred and 
forty years old, only dying then because of a 
chance fall from a tree into which she had 
climbed to gather nuts. She lived at Dromana, 
a place we shall pass this afternoon when we 
are on the river.” 

“ Sh-sh,” warned Mrs. Pitt, as the children’s 
loud laughter echoed through the churchyard 
and seemed to mock at the tombs. 

i 6 The lady in the traiid told me that not long 
ago some ancient coffins of old Munster kings 
were found in St. Mary’s crypt. The story 
goes that dazzling jewels were discovered, too, 
but that these and the verger vanished the same 
night, never to return.” 

“ I wonder if that’s true,” commented Bar- 
bara. 

Betty had climbed with John to the top of 
the city wall, and they were shouting the news 
that they could see the blue sea and the boats. 
Philip started after them, but turned when he 
heard the name Sir Walter Raleigh. 

Myrtle Grove, the charming Elizabethan 
manor house in which Raleigh lived, stands 
close by St. Mary’s Church; in fact, it is 


122 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

thought once to have been the residence of 
church dignitaries. Now the old place, rich in 
associations of Kaleigh and his friend, Edmund 
Spenser, is the private property of Sir Henry 
Blake, formerly the English Governor of Hong 
Kong. Mrs. Pitt rang the bell in the brick wall 
and for some minutes they stood there, expect- 
ant. When a servant, opening the door a 
crack, coldly informed them that no visitors 
were received at Myrtle Grove, they were too 
startled to speak. The door closed and there 
they stood, shut out from the place they had 
come to Youghal chiefly to see. 

“ Oh, I say, not to see Raleigh’s place! 
That’s too bad, you know. Mother, can’t you 
do something? ” 

If Philip ever gave way to tears he was near 
it now. Betty added dolefully: 

“ I wanted to see Myrtle Grove almost more 
than anything else. I’ve liked Walter Raleigh 
ever since I was little and thought his name was 
4 Salt Water Rawlly.’ ” 

Mrs. Pitt said nothing, but she wore a de- 
termined air that it was good to see. Taking 
a card from her handbag, she wrote something 
on it and rang the bell a second time. The chil- 
dren held their breath. They never knew what 
message the card bore, but soon the door swung 
wide open and there was Lady Blake inviting 
them to come in. She was a tall, pleasant 



“ I WANTED TO SEE MYRTLE GROVE ALMOST MORE THAN ANYTHING 

else.” — Page 122. 








' 



IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


123 


person and wore sensible gardening clothes. 

“ How do yon do? ” she said to Mrs. Pitt, 
leading the way towards the house, its red 
bricks and gables covered with vines, its case- 
ment windows swung hospitably open. She 
ignored the children, but they were too happy 
to care. 

“ They say that Raleigh came to Ireland in 
1579, at the head of some troops which put down 
one of the ever-rebellious Earls of Desmond,’ ’ 
Lady Blake said presently. “ Raleigh was 
brave and handsome, you know, and they gave 
him a grant of land on which this house was 
probably standing. Raleigh lived here for a 
few years, was even Mayor of Youghal. Some 
books say that Spenser was here often ; we have 
a bedchamber called 4 Spenser’s Chamber.’ But 
how true the tradition is, I can’t say, I’m sure. 
Shall we go in now? ” 

The massive front door with its heart-shaped 
brass keyhole opens into a low vestibule. They 
followed Lady Blake up the carpeted stairs and 
into rooms all paneled alike in black oak, hav- 
ing lovely latticed windows, set in thick, sub- 
stantial walls, and wonderfully carved oak man- 
tels with delightful cupboards at the side. In 
a glass cabinet is preserved the famous pipe 
from which Raleigh smoked the hitherto un- 
known tobacco. John longed to ask if he could 
put the pipe in his mouth for a second, but 


124 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Betty quickly pulled him away. In Raleigh’s 
and Spenser’s bedrooms are grand old beds; 
everywhere are beautiful things, for which the 
fine old Elizabethan dwelling furnishes just the 
right setting. 

“ Raleigh might have been here only yester- 
day! ” said Mrs. Pitt, as she looked around. 

“ Yes,” remarked Betty, as she went in tim- 
idly; “ don’t you feel as if it was the sixteenth 
century, really, instead of the twentieth? ” 

The other children looked at Betty with ad- 
miration. They had not dared to speak to this 
august possessor of Raleigh’s treasures. Lady 
Blake smiled down indulgently at Betty, but 
she assured her that she felt 6 6 quite modern.” 

In front of the house is a wide, graveled 
court, beyond which are four aged yew trees, 
their branches so intertwined as to make a 
tiny arbor. 

“ Shoo! ” said Lady Blake to the peacocks 
that were strutting there. 

“ Here,” she told her guests, “ beneath these 
trees, Sir Walter probably smoked his pipe and 
dreamed of future voyages and adventures.” 

A servant just then summoned her to the 
house and she hurried away, first giving them 
permission to explore the gardens as long as 
they chose. 

“ She’s a brick! ” burst out John, as soon 
as their hostess had vanished indoors. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


125 


“ Yes, but I wish she hadn’t frightened those 
darling peacocks away. YYm don’t see them 
anywhere, do yon? ” said Barbara. 

Going through an arch in the green hedge, 
they found an old-fashioned garden, the in- 
closure in which Raleigh had first planted the 
potatoes and tobacco brought from distant Vir- 
ginia. There are seveial other gardens and 
terraces, and Lady Blake’s aviary, but John’s 
watch reminded them that the steamer for 
the Blackwater trip would leave in twenty 
minutes. 

Everybody was so hungry that it was not 
until after they had had some luncheon on the 
deck that they began to appreciate the scenery 
of the Blackwater, the “ Irish Rhine.” There 
were but few other passengers and they found 
it very pleasant to sit there, quiet and content, 
while their little boat glided on. Sometimes the 
banks of the river are heavily wooded, some- 
times bordered by fertile fields; again, there 
are mountains and ruined castles high upon 
promontories which faintly suggest the Rhine. 
The country has varied historical associations, 
too; here with the ever-youthful Countess of 
Desmond, there with Raleigh, and again with 
Strongbow or Cromwell. 

At Cappoquin, seventeen miles from Youghal, 
the steamer stops. Carriages were waiting to 
carry visitors to Mount Melleray, the monas- 


126 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

tery of some Irish monks, at the foot of the 
Knoekmealdown Mountains. 

“ They can’t ‘ knock me all down,’ ” an- 
nounced John, chuckling at his own wit. 

Mrs. Pitt ordered their jarvey to drive them 
to Lismore Castle, not many miles away. 

“ Why, it’s even nicer than Warwick Cas- 
tle! ” exclaimed Betty, as they paused, look- 
ing up at the Duke of Devonshire’s beautiful 
castle of Lismore, high on a wooded bluff above 
the Blackwater, spanned at that point by an 
ancient bridge. 

“ Pipping! ” agreed John. “ Here, wait till 
I snap it! ” 

“ I didn’t know there was such a castle in 
Ireland,” said Philip, greatly impressed with 
the lofty turrets, towers and battlements, the 
wide courts, and well-kept gardens. 

At the porter ’s lodge they were turned away, 
with the information that the Duke and his 
family were in residence and no visitors were 
admitted. 

“ Stuffy of him to keep everybody out,” 
grumbled John. 

“ Well, you know the Duke’s one of the first 
men in the United Kingdom,” Philip retorted. 
“ Beally, you can’t expect him to let in every- 
body who comes along.” 

John merely sniffed, and, like the others, 
tried to get a glimpse of the main courtyard 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


127 


in the center of which is a beautiful spreading 
tree. Turning, they walked down the over- 
arched drive, in the twilight, the strange clay 
soil of Lismore slipping beneath their feet. 
Just as they went through the outer gate, a 
motor-car came towards them, carrying a gen- 
tleman in rough tweeds, who talked merrily 
with a boy and girl, all bending over fishing 
tackle. 

4 4 Wasn't that the Duke? ” Mrs. Pitt asked 
of a man who had dropped his broom to touch 
his cap as the car passed. 

44 Yes, my lady, the Duke and his children." 


CHAPTER TEN 


IN THE SHOWERY SOUTH OF IRELAND 

“ Now, young sir, if ye’ll just lave every thin 7 
to the head porter, wherever ye be goin’, ye’ll 
be all right; but, if ye git ter sthravagin’ round 
like this, ye’ll be always in throuble.” 

Florrie’s voice became commanding. There 
was plainly nothing more to be said, yet John 
was unconvinced. It was within ten minutes 
of starting time for the Bantry train, and the 
station omnibus was not yet at the Imperial Ho- 
tel door. Of course they would lose the train 
which it was most important that they should 
make; but John, having unwisely attempted to 
berate Florrie, only called forth the above re- 
marks, without hurrying matters in the least. 
Nobody else seemed at all disturbed by the de- 
lay. The luggage had been brought down ; Mrs. 
Pitt and Philip were studying a map on the 
wall, near the door; Betty and Barbara, as 
usual, were taking advantage of a spare mo- 
ment to send off picture post-cards. John need 
not have been ruffled, for they easily caught 
their train, which started about twenty minutes 

128 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


129 

later than schedule time. Herein lies a moral 
for the traveler in Ireland. 

The train ambled along through the country 
which Thackeray from his coach pronounced 
“ bare and ragged looking, but yet green and 
pretty sometimes they stopped at little sta- 
tions where barefooted women and children 
gazed at them from the platforms. A few of 
the women wore long cloaks with hoods, made 
of good blue or black cloth. 

“ Oh, it must be market day! ” said Betty, 
upon arrival at Bantry that noon. “ See all 
the people in the streets, and look at them 
squatting in the doorways with their baskets 
of green apples. What a lot of them wear 
the long cloaks here! 99 
Mrs. Pitt let the children wander through 
Bantry ’s muddy, squalid streets, and investi- 
gate the chattering crowds and braying don- 
keys, while she inquired about the Glengarriff 
steamer. 

“ We’ve had a narrow escape,” she ex- 
claimed, as she overtook them. “ They tell 
me that so early in the season as this the 
steamer runs only twice a week, — and Florrie 
assured me it went every day! Fancy! Well, 
most luckily for us it does go this afternoon. 
But to think that we might have had to stay 
the night at Bantry! ” 

After luncheon they had yet an hour before 


13 ° 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

the departure of the boat, plenty of time for 
a walk out beyond the town. A road skirts the 
bay, very pretty with its islands and a rocking 
yacht or two, beyond which they saw something 
lying long and gray on the water. 

John and Philip did not need to look more 
than once. 4 4 Warships! ” they cried. 

“ Quite so! ” replied Mrs. Pitt. “ I’m told 
they’re at target practice here. 

“On a clear day the Killamey Mountains 
can be seen,” she continued, hugging a high 
demesne wall to get out of the way of a peasant 
and her cow. ‘ ‘ There are Mangerton and Mac- 
gillicuddy’s Reeks, you know. Those moun- 
tains which we see, over Whiddy Island and 
its fortifications, are the Caha Mountains near 
Glengarriff, Sugar Loaf and Hungry Hill 
among them. Up among those peaks, there are 
three hundred and sixty-five lakes, some saint 
having prayed for a lake to supply water every 
day in the year. Somewhere about there’s a 
small lake the islands of which have the power, 
one day in each year, to dance about and change 
places. As for Hungry Hill, it was at the 
foot of it that Daniel 0 ’Rourke lived, the youth 
who rode on an eagle ’s back to the moon, where 
he sat and talked with the 4 man ’ himself, and 
tumbled off to be towed along by some flying 
geese that finally dropped him into the sea, 
where he met a whale that . . . And nobody 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


131 

was ever sure whether it was because Daniel 
had taken a drop too much on Lady Day, or 
had only fallen asleep under the walls of old 
Carrigaphooka Castle. You must read it all 
this evening in my copy of Croker’s ‘ Legends 
of the South of Ireland.’ Come, Barbara, it’s 
time for the boat.” 

In the point of rain, the southwest of Ireland 
tries to outdo all other sections, generally suc- 
ceeding. So Mrs. Pitt and the girls viewed the 
scenery and even the majestic battleships from 
under umbrellas dripping with heavy Irish mist. 
Great clouds shifted over the mountain peaks, 
the water of the bay roughened, and a cold wind 
blew in their faces. As they neared the inner 
harbor, so inclosed as to resemble a lake, they 
passed several more warships. When a cannon 
ball went hissing across the waves, following a 
loud explosion, John was beside himself with 
excitement. All he asked was a chance to visit 
one of the ships. 

By the time they had landed in the little cove 
of Glengarriff and had tramped through the 
mud to pretty Eccles Hotel, near the beach, 
hard rain was descending and clouds had shut 
in on all sides. The hotel, with its stone floors 
and huge rooms, was depressingly cold and 
empty; Mrs. Pitt ordered a fire built at once 
and, sitting before it, they drank their tea. The 
afternoon and evening were necessarily spent 


i3 2 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

within doors. Rain dripped off the hotel roof 
and soaked the grass and the flowers ; the wind 
whipped the branches of the trees, and tossed 
the boats moored near shore. Now and then 
a huddled rider dashed along the road in front 
of the hotel, his garments streaming. But for 
the most part there was dead silence, within 
and without. 

It was fortunate that the Eccles Hotel had 
a good library, for there was still much rain 
the following morning and only the boys were 
allowed to go out, scurrying up the road to the 
cluster of cottages which make up the town of 
Glengarriff. About noon the rain suddenly 
ceased, and within an hour the sun shone 
brightly. 

“ It’s too wet to walk,” said Mrs. Pitt, 44 but 
we’ll go for a drive to Cromwell’s Bridge, and 
through the woods to Lord Bantry’s shooting- 
lodge. Get on your warm coats, children ; we ’ll 
take two umbrellas.” 

When they started the mists were clearing 
away, showing the sparkling water. Leaving it 
behind, they drove through the village and into 
the woods. Here birds were singing among 
the wet leaves of the trees, and the roads were 
slippery with mud. The forests about Glen- 
garriff have the wonderful silvery freshness 
which is found in all delightful Irish wood- 
lands. They are old — in fact, hoary with age — 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i33 

and yet there is in them all that is dainty and 
young, ferns and wild flowers. 

“ There's Cromwell's Bridge," said Bar- 
bara, when they came to the rushing little 
Proudley River, swollen by much rain. “ Yes, 
it has two whole arches and a broken one, just 
like the postcards." 

“ What was Cromwell doing here, anyhow? 
Could he be everywhere at once? When you 
study English history, he 's always in England ; 
when you come to Ireland, he's here, too." 

“ He does seem to have been ever present, 
Betty," agreed Mrs. Pitt. “ I suppose such 
characters always are. History fails to tell us 
his business at Glengarriff, but legend comes to 
the rescue and says he was on a visit to the 
O'Sullivans, who owned this part of the coun- 
try. Cromwell had trouble in crossing this 
river with his men, and he told the natives 
that, if they didn't build him a bridge at once, 
he would hang one man for every hour's 
delay. The bridge was finished in forty-eight 
hours." 

“ You bet it was! " cried John. u He could 
make 'em hump." 

Lord Bantry, owner of many acres of land 
about Glengarriff, built his shooting-lodge on 
a knoll in a green valley, shut in on one side 
by dense woods, on the other by grim moun- 
tains with rocky sides. The children were 


134 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

charmed with the house, a kind of Swiss chalet, 
having a steep roof and an upper balcony; all 
about are trees and shrubs, great rhododen- 
drons almost covering some of the lower win- 
dows. They peeped in and saw many trophies 
of the chase. 

Quite different were the huts they saw later 
on, as they drove over the hillsides above the 
shores of the bay and the village of Glengar- 
riff. This was the most ghastly poverty they 
had yet seen in Ireland. 

‘ ‘ The houses are just like those 4 black huts 9 
they had in the Highland Village at the Glas- 
gow Exhibition,’ ’ Betty said, shuddering. 
“ They’re too awful! I can’t look! ” 

Dropped down in any little ravine or over- 
hanging a rushing stream, these thatched mud 
huts seem unfit for human beings. It is some- 
times impossible to recognize which shack is 
house and which shed, the animals entering one 
quite as naturally as the other. Children 
played in the miry yards among the few family 
possessions, a handful of chickens, a pig, and 
by rare good fortune, a donkey. Tousled 
women filled the doorways, shading their eyes 
to peer at the passing strangers, their position 
making it mercifully impossible to see the black, 
windowless, smoke-filled interiors. Among the 
stones were dug pitiable bits of potato patches ; 
and these are all the people have, unless one 



Dropped down in any little ravine, or overhanging a rushing stream, these thatched 

mud huts. — Page 134. 




IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


135 

counts the view, a glorious one overlooking the 
bay, wooded hills, and mountain peaks beyond. 
But it is doubtful whether the scenery affords 
much consolation to these poor, struggling 
peasants. Every one reads about the heart- 
rending poverty of the Irish. Here it was in 
truth. 

The jaunting-car wound its way down the 
steep road to the village, and left its passengers 
at the hotel once more; they felt disinclined 
for much conversation, looking quietly out over 
the island-dotted bay, its waters opal under 
the setting sun. From time to time target prac- 
tice from the battleships reverberated, rattling 
the hotel windows in their frames. It was a 
lovely evening, and they sat spellbound upon 
the veranda until the head waiter came with 
friendly warning of the hour for dinner. 

At ten o’clock the next morning two outside- 
cars were in readiness to take them over the 
mountains, twenty-four miles to Kenmare. To 
carry five passengers and their luggage over 
this steep road was far too much for one horse, 
so for that day the party was divided. Mrs. 
Pitt, Betty, and Philip led the way, and behind 
came John and Barbara, sitting together on one 
side, while all the suit-cases and handbags were 
strapped to the other seat. And so they 
climbed slowly up the stony roads behind Glen- 
garrifif, up, up into the mountains; and from 


1 36 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

the curving roads they looked back over the 
valley they had just left, the bay beyond, and 
the far mountains of County Cork. 

“ I’ve used every adjective I know,” sighed 
Betty; “ now I’m just going to look and not 
talk at all. What’s the use? ” 

No one had any answer to this question and 
it was a quiet party which drove on for sev- 
eral hours until, at the highest point of the 
pass, a solitary hut was reached. As the driv- 
ers jumped down and disappeared inside the 
cabin, the two boys scrambled down, too, buy- 
ing several bottles of ginger beer for the re- 
freshment of Mrs. Pitt and the girls. 

4 ‘ Hello ! here ’s a tunnel, right under the 
mountain. It’s black, isn’t it? Come along, 
Philip ; we’ll walk it. What do you say? ” 

Emerging at the further end of the damp 
tunnel, they were in County Kerry, and before 
them rose just as many mountains as they had 
left behind in County Cork. Down the wind- 
ing road they went, sometimes meeting fright- 
ened sheep, sometimes groups of small, black 
Kerry cattle. 

“ No wonder they’re thin,” Philip reflect- 
ed; “ there’s nothing for them to eat but 
stones.” 

“ Yes, the soil is very poor up here in the 
mountains,” said his mother. “ There’s an 
old saying that 6 a Kerry cow never looks up 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i37 

at a passing stranger for fear it would lose 
the bite/ ” 

“ Yesterday I read a story about the first 
cow in Ireland,’ ’ remarked Betty. “ In Mr. 
Jeremiah Curtin’s book there are two or three 
stories about her. In one of them men had an 
awfully hard time following her about, but 
she gave plenty of milk to everybody until an 
old woman once milked her into a sieve and 
made the river all milky. Then the cow — Glas 
Gainach was her name — went away over the 
water to Spain, where she came from. In an- 
other place it says that the rich in Ireland 
tried to take all her milk, so she went up into 
the air and they never saw her again.” 

“ H’m,” said John, “ s’pose that’s what 
made the milky way.” 

4 4 Since then there’s never been enough milk 
for poor people, because it all has to come from 
common cows,” continued Betty, ignoring 
John’s comment. 

At last they were in the valley and began 
to pass an occasional cottage, a lonely school- 
house or a chapel. Towards the middle of the 
afternoon they crossed a broad river and were 
in the town of Kenmare. Into the bay of this 
same name the Milesians first sailed, wonder- 
ful early settlers of Ireland. From there they 
marched straight to Tara Hill. And they say 
that everybody who bears a name beginning 


138 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

with an “ 0 99 or a “ Mac ” is descended from 
this “ high Milesian race.” 

Mrs. Pitt directed the drivers to the railway 
station, where their luggage was left and in- 
quiries made about trains. 

Finding that there would be no Killarney 
train for three hours, they had tea at the 
Southern Hotel, after which they walked about 
this town, always popular with tourists because 
of its fine trout-fishing and its golfing. The 
fishing is done six miles below the town, so 
John could not take that in; but he and Philip 
cast a critical eye over the links, while the 
others inspected the lace at the convent of 
Poor Clares. 

As might have been expected, the Killarney 
train did not start on time; the ticket agent 
did not arrive to sell Mrs. Pitt her tickets un- 
til twenty minutes after the train should have 
been on its way. It was, therefore, growing 
dark when they at last left Kenmare. Just 
before they started a guard put lighted lamps 
in through the roof of the coach. 

“ Well, what do you know about that! ” ex- 
claimed John. 

Men and women were walking homewards 
across the fields, and blue peat smoke puffed 
from the cottage chimneys. The very moun- 
tains seemed to be veiled in this same blue 
haze. At length they came in sight of Mac- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i39 


gillicuddy’s Reeks, just as the daylight was al- 
most gone. In answer to the children’s ques- 
tions regarding this strange name, Mrs. Pitt 
told the following legend: 

“ There was once a Mr. Macgillicuddy who 
owned estates in this part of Ireland,” she 
said. “ He was invited to visit some friends 
in England, and when he set out he took with 
him an exceedingly patriotic, not always truth- 
ful, Irish servant of his. It seems that the 
English gentleman owned much meadow land 
and was very proud of his haystacks (or ricks) ; 
it was therefore natural that in the servants’ 
hall there was also much talk of the stackyard. 
Paddy was early taken there, but he would 
never admit that things English compared with 
corresponding things in Ireland; so he was 
quite indifferent, merely saying, ‘It’s a nice 
bit 0’ grass you’ve brought home here for pres- 
ent use ; now let us have a peep at the ricks. ’ 
When assured that he was even then viewing 
the Englishman’s ricks, he answered that there 
was only enough hay there to make bands for 
thatching his master’s great ricks in Ireland. 

“ Now when the Englishman returned his 
Irish friend’s visit, in the following year, the 
first thing which his servant demanded was a 
sight of the Irish haystacks. The amiable Irish 
servant was only too happy to comply with this 
request, but could not be free for it until even- 


I 4 0 IRISH HISTORY VISIT 

in g, he said. In the gray twilight, then, he led 
the Englishman to where he could see the high 
mountains in the distance. ‘ There are our 
ricks/ said the Irishman. And ever since, those 
mountains have been called Macgillicuddy’s 
Reeks! ” 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 

SEEING KILLARNEY 

c ‘ But how could the 0 ’Donoghue live at the 
bottom of a lake? ” persisted Barbara. 

“ Sure he could! ” said John. “ Couldn’t 
be any wetter down there than it is here this 
minute ! ’ 9 

They were walking across the sodden paths 
and soaked lawns of Lord Kenmare’s demesne, 
on their way from the Royal Victoria Hotel 
to Ross Castle. One whole day and part of 
the second they had restlessly kept within 
doors, hoping for fine weather ; not yet had Kil- 
larney treated them to a glimpse of her moun- 
tains or even of “ Fair Innisfallen , 9 9 which 
island lay directly opposite the hotel. 

It was on their second morning that they 
overheard a dialogue between two English 
gentlemen : 

“ Beastly weather! We’ll not get far to- 
day. The thought of those bouncing trout out 

in the lake makes me fairly Oh, hello, 

Jim! You down? I say, old chap, why do you 
come to Killarney when she always treats you 
like this? ” 


142 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ Oh, I say now, why do you come, then? 
You’ve been here every spring for fifteen 
years. So’ve I! We depend on it; it’s like our 
whisky and sodas or our morning baths. You 
know that. So do I! When there’s rain and 
fog like this, we’ve the devil to pay; but when 

Killarney smiles Well, Killarney’s Kil- 

larney; that’s all. Ah, Thomas, trout and 
bacon and eggs, as usual.” 

Mrs. Pitt and the rest decided that this was 
the proper attitude and that they would com- 
plain no more. As a reward they found the 
fog a degree less dense after luncheon, and they 
started for a walk. 

There have been many attempts to describe 
wet weather in Ireland, but one must himself 
experience the long succession of rainy days 
in the south to understand how thoroughly 
soaked everything can be. On they went across 
the fields and meadows of which Lord Ken- 
mare’s big house commands a view, under the 
beautiful great trees, weighted with rain- 
soaked leaves. It is impossible to say too much 
in praise of these wonderful trees: yew, oak, 
wild apple, hazel, birch, holly with shining green 
leaves, and mountain ash with red berries, and, 
brightest of all, the lovely arbutus. Under 
them, in the shade, grow pale yellow primroses, 
clumps and clumps of them. 

When they came to picturesque Ross Castle, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i43 


on a peninsula in the Upper Lake, the snn 
glinting upon its vine-covered keep, Mrs. Pitt 
told them about the great O’Donoghue. 

‘ 1 He was chief of this part of Kerry, and his 
castle stood in the center of the lovely valley 
where the three lakes of Killarney now are, — 
the lakes were called Loch Lene, after the gold- 
smith, i Lene of the Many Hammers,’ who 6 here 
by the lake wrought, surrounded by rainbows 
and showers of fiery dew. ’ As at Loch Awe in 
Scotland, you remember, some one forgot to 
replace the cover on an enchanted well, and the 
water poured into the valley and flooded it. 
Just as a sentinel, on a turret of the castle, 
shouted, ‘ All’s well! ’ the water rose above his 
chin. The O’Donoghue was not drowned, how- 
ever, nor were the lords and ladies of his court. 
They still live in the castle under the water. 
It is said that sometimes peasants have been 
taken down to share the chief’s hospitality; oc- 
casionally one still meets a man who will tell 
startling tales of his grandfather’s experiences 
in the castle under the water. Although the 
chief seems less fond of entertaining than for- 
merly, he comes up at certain times to take 
the air upon his white horse. Every May Day 
he rides in the early morning, and sometimes 
he is seen at other seasons. People are always 
on the watch for him at dawn, and luck is with 
him who sees the big warrior in armor, seated 


144 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

on his white steed and preceded by dancing 
maidens strewing flowers.” 

John and Philip had already climbed the 
stone stair of the castle and, the others follow- 
ing, they wandered among the ruined walls and 
finally stood upon the top of its battlemented 
tower. Ross Castle was built by an early 
O’Donoghue chief, and most of the legends of 
the famous O’Donoghue have been derived from 
that connected with this castle. Even yet vis- 
itors may see the identical window from which 
the chief leaped with his horse, when he ex- 
changed his fair possessions on earth for a 
kingdom under the lake. In another legend 
we are told that the chieftain had power to 
assume all kinds of shapes. His wife, a lady 
of much curiosity, wanting to learn if this 
power were really his, asked him one day for 
a proof. He agreed to give it on condition 
that she would promise not to be frightened, 
no matter how horrible he might look. In spite 
of her promise, she became so alarmed that 
she gave a loud shriek, at which her husband 
leaped from the castle window into the lake. 
There he will live until the horse ’s silver shoes 
are worn out by his annual rides. 

“ You’d think he’d come to earth more than 
once a year,” reasoned Betty, “ for he still has 
a stable for his horses, a prison, a library, a 
pigeon-house, a cellar, a broom, a pulpit, and 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i45 

— what else? The porter at the hotel said I 
could see all these things, but, of course, they’re 
not real, only rocks.” 

“ Yez can see the great O’Donoghue’s horse, 
ma’am, if ye’ll just be steppin’ into a dacent 
boat the likes 0’ mine, here. Shure it’s meself 
and this gossoon as could be rowin’ yez out to 
Innisfallen, too. Shure it’s a fine evenin’ 
entirely. ’ ’ 

As the sky looked promising, and even the 
mountains were beginning to come forth, 
wrapped in their purple veils, Mrs. Pitt ven- 
tured to engage the boatman and to marshal 
her party into the boat. At first they inspected 
certain of the rocks in this, the Lower Lake, 
the curious formations usually suggesting some 
possession of the O’Donoghue. The horse is 
perhaps the most realistic, though John was 
most scornful of it. 

“ He’d fall to pieces like the 4 Wonderful 
One-Horse Shay, ’ if a knight in armor ever sat 
upon him ! ’ ’ 

“ Do you know,” broke in Philip suddenly, 
“ I think there’s a storm coming, Mother. Bet- 
ter have the boatman take us to the hotel.” 

Mrs. Pitt looked up to see heavy clouds fast 
gathering below the mountains, and she no- 
ticed that a stiff wind was blowing. But the 
boatman insisted on taking them to Innisfallen, 
and was firm in his assurances of safety. Mrs. 


i 4 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Pitt was sitting so that she saw Ross Castle, 
back in the pale sunshine; but Barbara and 
Betty, seeing the big waves farther out in the 
lake, sat closer together and held each other’s 
hands. When they came out into the open lake, 
the wind struck them full force and their boat 
became a very fragile thing. In silence they 
peered through the slanting rain at the tiny 
beach of Innisfallen Island. John vented his 
feelings in a low whistle and turned down the 
brim of his cap so the water would not run 
down his neck. By breathless pulling and 
steadying, the men at last brought the boat 
safely to the island and th»ey all jumped ashore 
gladly. 

“ My word! ” cried Mrs. Pitt, whose face 
had lost its color ; “ we ’ll have to spend the night 
here if the wind doesn’t go down. There have 
been accidents on Killarney Lakes, — but we 
won’t talk of them.’’ 

With the wild wind in their ears, the trees 
and lovely dells of Innisfallen looked ghostly 
instead of dainty and fairylike, as the poem 
describes them. The ruins of the abbey, 
founded in the seventh century by the leper, St. 
Finian, and those of an even more ancient 
chapel, covered with ivy, did not have their usual 
charm. They all forgot how holy was the 
ground of the island upon which they stood, 
consecrated by the monks, so that any man who 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i47 


attempts to plow it up is prevented by innu- 
merable white doves that rise from the fur- 
rows. These visitors were shamefully eager 
to leave “ Fair Innisf alien ” on that gray, 
stormy day. They longed above everything to 
be within walking distance of their hotel with 
its cheerful fires. 

“ Those fellows aren’t afraid,” said John, 
pointing to two or three old fishermen standing 
on the pebbly beach. “ Come ahead; we’ll be 
all right. I’ve been in worse gales than this.” 

These weather-wise natives had indeed re- 
assured Mrs. Pitt, although they advised her 
to start as soon as possible, as the wind was 
evidently rising. Taking their advice, they 
found themselves, at the end of half an hour, 
among the reeds of the further shore, near 
the hotel. The men, leaping out, pulled the 
boat to the landing. It had been a wet, anxious 
trip which even the boys did not care to 
remember. 

Sitting by the fire drinking their tea a few 
minutes later, they resolved to do no more 
boating until the weather became settled, if 
such a thing ever came to Killarney. 

One day the unexpected happened ; they woke 
to a cloudless sky and a perfect day such as is 
seldom enjoyed in this greenest, rainiest spot 
in all Ireland. With eyes upon the mountains 
and blue lake, they ate their breakfast and voted 


148 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

which one of many trips they should take. 
John pleaded so eloquently and persistently 
for the Gap of Dunloe that he won two of them 
to his side, and, as this was a majority, the Gap 
of Dunloe it was. 

“ There’s some fun there! ” John had con- 
cluded; “ you have to ride horseback. Bring 
your whip, Betty. It’ll be sport! ” 

Gayly they rattled away on their outside-car, 
through the village of Aghadoe, where one may 
yet chance to see young people dancing on the 
green of a Sunday afternoon ; past ruined 
Killalee Church, and over an old bridge cross- 
ing the River Laune. Before them rose the 
great peaks of the Tomies Mountain and Mac- 
gillicuddy’s Reeks. Near a little cottage they 
jumped off the car. 

When they learned that the hut in front of 
which were gathered jaunting-cars, shaggy 
ponies, guides, beggars, and tourists, was orig- 
inally Kate Kearney’s, of course they all either 
sang or whistled: 

“Oh, did ye ne’er hear of Kate Kearney? 

She lives by the Lake of Killarney ” 

Presently a woman, presumably a descendant 
of Kate ’s, came out in the hope of selling some 
of her refreshments; most of the tourists hav- 
ing persistently declined these and as sturdily 
ignored the husky beggars, ponies were led for- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


149 


ward and the tourists began to mount them. 
Betty, not being an experienced horsewoman, 
had had some secret dread of this part of the 
day’s programme; but she need not have 
feared, for the poor thin beasts had barely 
enough energy to trudge along the rocky way 
with their burdens, prodded by frequent kicks 
and blows from the guides. 

“ Mine’s an old cow,” muttered John, in dis- 
gust. “ I’d rather get off and walk, I would ! ” 

“ And I don’t think the Gap is very pretty,” 
added Betty. “ I’ll be glad when we get to 
the end. It all looks so lonesome here, even 
if the sun is bright! ” 

The beauty of the Gap of Dunloe is of a very 
somber kind. The mountains are bare and 
steep, and some have a distinctly purple tint 
from the color of the stone ; in the narrow pass 
are a number of small, still lakes, into one of 
which St. Patrick is said to have cast the last 
snake in Ireland, safely fastened in a box. But 
another legend has it that the saint never en- 
tered Kerry at all, only raising his hand to 
bless “ all beyond the Reeks.” 

After a glimpse of Coom Dhuv, or the Black 
Valley, with its white cataract, they left the 
ponies on the shore of the Upper Lake. Once 
in their boat, they hungrily ate the luncheon 
which they had brought with them. Meanwhile 
they were passing through the long, narrow 


150 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

channel connecting the Upper and Middle 
Lakes ; the water runs swift and clear here, and 
trees line the way. All nature appears gentle 
after the rather dreadful glories of the Gap of 
Dunloe. 

Soon the branches parted enough for Mrs. 
Pitt to point out the Eagle ’s Nest, a bare moun- 
tain shaped like a pyramid. 

“ Oh! ” cried John, his mouth full of sand- 
wich; “ are there eagles there? It would be 
bully to climb up and find their nests.” 

“ There used to be plenty of eagles, but 
the bugles and the cannon have frightened most 
of them away.” 

“ What bugles? What cannon? ” demanded 
the children promptly. They had hardly 
spoken before the guide jumped to the shore 
and, raising a bugle to his lips, called forth 
a wonderful echo from the sides of Eagle’s 
Nest Mountain. First a single note would be 
caught up and then many times repeated, now 
loudly, now softly; after that a number of 
notes would be sounded, only to rumble about 
the mountain and finally die away in the dis- 
tance, suggesting that the O’Donogliue and his 
whole court might be hunting there, far off in 
an enchanted forest. 

When the guide had exhausted his skill, he 
fired the cannon, and at this a thousand differ- 
ent sounds, growls, crashes, thunders, now har- 



And, of course, they could not omit Muckross Abbey.— Page 152. 



IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


151 

monious, now discordant, resounded from the 
surrounding mountains. The boys thought it 
splendid, but Betty’s hands flew to her ears, 
and she did not take them down until the roar 
subsided to a soft murmur in the distant tree- 
tops. 

About a mile farther on they sighted the 
stone Weir Bridge; then, before they knew it, 
their boat was shot along by the rapid current 
and whisked under the larger arch of this 
bridge said to have been built by the Danes. 
This point, where the Upper Lake pours 
through a narrow passage into the Middle, or 
Tore Lake, is called Waters Meet. 

The guide, leaning on his oars in the quiet 
water beyond the bridge, congratulated his 
party; most people were afraid to stay in the 
boat, he said, and usually were landed to view 
the rapids from the bank. 

“ But there wasn’t time to be scared! ” 
laughed Betty, as her brother asked if they 
couldn’t do it again. 

“ It was corking! But a fellow ought to 
have warning. I didn’t get my money’s 
worth! ” he added, when the guide shook his 
head and said they must not go back. 

Landing, they went into the little tourists’ 
cottage on Dinis Island, built by the Mr. Her- 
bert who lives in the big house at Muckross. 
Here they bought post-cards and souvenirs in 


152 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

bog oak or arbutus wood, miniature round tow- 
ers, or quaint polished boxes with Killarney 
views on them. The cottage fits admirably 
into its picturesque surroundings. There are 
avenues of lime trees and, near the cottage, is 
the one plane-tree in Ireland. Arbutus-trees, 
beeches, oaks, and ashes grow close to the wa- 
ter, and the spot is one of the most beautiful 
in the whole territory of the lakes. 

Reminded by the guide that it was growing 
late, they were rowed into Glena Bay, in the 
largest, or Lower Lake, and past Glena Point, 
where there is another pretty cottage. Slowly 
they made their way, between familiar Ross 
and Innisfallen Islands, and on to the landing 
in front of their hotel. There was not a ripple 
on the lake that evening and the mountains had 
cast off their veils, to be fully admired by the 
strangers. All were grateful for the rare day 
which fickle Killarney had given them. 

There was yet much to see in the neighbor- 
hood; it takes many days to exhaust the lovely 
drives and to see all the waterfalls. And, of 
course, they could not omit Muckross Abbey, 
where descendants of the O’Donoghue were 
buried as late as 1833. The abbey stands on 
high ground, amid trees, overlooking a green 
stretch of lawn ending at the Middle Lake. 
The cloisters consist of twenty-two well- 
preserved arches. One may walk through them, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i53 


around the four sides of the court, and it is an 
ideal place to linger. The old arches, the clois- 
ter roof, and the floor are tinged with a faint, 
dull green from the moss and the dampness; 
the sun streams in through the branches of 
a magnificent yew tree which shades the 
cloistered court. So quiet and beautiful is it 
there that one dreads to break the spell by 
speaking. It is somehow easy to believe the 
peasants* legend, that the tree bleeds if it is 
cut and that any one injuring it will surely die 
within the year. 

Returning to the “ Friar’s Walk,” lined with 
horsechestnuts and beeches, they climbed to 
the seats of their jaunting-car and drove out 
through the gates of Mr. Herbert’s demesne on 
which Muckross Abbey stands, to find them- 
selves soon amid very different scenes. It was 
Saturday, the day on which the town of Kil- 
larney holds its pig market. Such muddy, 
squealing pigs; such bickering and chattering 
among the shawled women, their owners or 
purchasers; such struggles to lift the animals 
into waiting donkey-carts. It was almost im- 
possible to push through the main streets of 
the town, where the peasants were elbowing in 
and out of the slovenly shops. In Killarney’s 
lanes are many poor, thatched cottages, and 
cows, goats, and chickens wander about un- 
molested. 


154 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

4 4 It belongs to Lord Kenmare,” Mrs. Pitt 
told them, having finished her business with 
the station master. 44 Only about a century ago 
it was rebuilt, the owner taking great care that 
there should be a garden space behind each 
house. But the leases made no mention of sub- 
lettings, so the people straightway let these 
bits of ground to others, who built hovels there. 
In a short time the town was as crowded and 
dirty as before. Attempts at reform sometimes 
meet with unexpected results in Ireland. Now, 
Patrick, drive us to the workhouse. ’ 9 

This huge building, where Mrs. Pitt had an 
errand with the matron, shelters orphans, 
half-witted people, poverty-stricken old men 
and women, and seems the more gloomy for 
its situation in the beautiful country of 
Killarney. 

44 Will I just give you a peep into the work- 
house? 99 asked the motherly matron who came 
out of her lodge behind Mrs. Pitt. 44 Sure I 
will, and don ’t be thinking it ’s such a bad place 
intirely; we’ve a hard task, that’s the truth, 
but we do our best, and glory be to God we 
get through with it somehow.” 

In big rooms were many old women huddled 
together ; the old men were in the opposite wing. 
Having glanced at them, they followed the ma- 
tron across several stone-paved courts and 
through heavy doors, until she came to a room 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 155 

where the children were eating their snpper 
of hot milk and large squares of bread. The 
babies were none too clean, but they looked 
happy and were cared for by the older girls, 
upon whom the responsibilities of life had al- 
ready settled. The floor and tables were bare, 
spattered with milk, and the room was damp 
and almost dark. Yet the case of these girls 
was not without hope. 

“ They go to America just as soon as ever 
they’re ould enough, and then they’re afther 
sending back passage money to the littler ones. 
They forget the ould workhouse when they can, 
and the others, they never tell on them. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


FROM LONELY YALENTIA TO BUSY LIMERICK 

“ Have I f rinds in the States, is it? Faix! 
I have that! Shure who hasn’t? Me sister 
Biddy, she got married on a boy out o’ Cork, 
an’ the two o’ them, they wint out to the States, 
to Springfield it was. And me brother he got 
a job in New York on thim elevated thrains, I 
mind; and there’s me two cousins in Ohio. It’s 
this five year gone I’ve been savin’ me passage 
money to go out to the States, and I’ll be off 
the morrow from Queenstown, plaze God.” 

The platform at Farranfore station, the junc- 
tion for Valentia, was crowded with hilarious 
young people awaiting the down train to Cork 
and the steamer. Dressed in their best, and 
grasping big strapped valises of shiny leather 
which held their few belongings, they were 
starting for “ the States,” the land of prom- 
ise. Such groups may be seen any day, any- 
where in Ireland. Before bidding good-by to 
the “ ould folks ” at the home stations, there 
are usually many tears and wild cries and 
songs, encouraged by ‘ ‘ the drink. ’ ’ Girls hang 
recklessly out of carriage windows, waving and 
156 



The platform at Farranfore station.— Page 156. 




IRISH HISTORY VISI1 


i57 

shouting last messages ; they cling to every lit- 
tle relic of their old home, screaming and hys- 
terically lamenting their departure. But soon 
they are all smiles and anticipations, for they 
are going to “ the States,’ ’ where are many 
members of their families whom for years they 
have been planning to follow. Very few of 
them ever come back, certainly not to stay. 
Often they send money to keep the roof on 
“ th’ ould place ”; occasionally they return on 
a brief visit, to dazzle Irish eyes with Ameri- 
can clothes and astonish Irish ears with tales of 
glorious America. 

It is the same way throughout Ireland. 
There is much talk of Home Rule, after which 
will obviously come the millennium; but in the 
meantime every one disparages Ireland and 
praises America, where he has at least ten rela- 
tives. The more you may wish to hear of Irish 
folk tales, fairy-tales, ghost-tales, the more in- 
sistently will the people talk to you about “ the 
States.” One old jarvey said he had always 
wanted to emigrate, for there was no good 
in Ireland at all. “ Do yez know,” he asked, 
“ that we have even to pay a tax on dogs in 
th’ ould counthry here? ” 

' The gay party of emigrants was at last left 
behind when Mrs. Pitt and her party boarded 
the Valentia train. Slowly they traveled 
through scenes still delightfully Irish and un- 


158 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

progressive. Practically all the peasants of the 
district are digging and delving in America 
with an energy they never show at home. 
The railroad skirted the mountains, and far 
below lay beautiful Dingle Bay. The huts were 
set in hollows, surrounded by walls almost as 
high as the roofs, and there were trimmed 
fuchsia hedges. 

Passing Caliirciveen, where Daniel O’Con- 
nell was born, the railroad came to a sudden 
end at Valentia and the water. Valentia 
Island, where there is not “ one dhry step 
’twixt your fut an’ the States,” had to be 
reached by ferry; and it is scarcely necessary 
to say that it was raining steadily. 

But Mrs. Pitt was not to be long perplexed. 
As she stepped to the wet platform, a big bland 
Irishman, as cocksure and capable as “ Flor- 
rie,” stepped up: “ Just ye lave it all to me, 
ma’am. I’ll take care of yez fine. The boat’s 
below; in a minute I’ll show yez the way. Here’s 
me ould coat what ’ll keep the ladies dhry ; that 
coat came from America, ma’am. Shure it’s 
meself has lived tin years in Boston.” 

Led by this new American friend, they care- 
fully picked their way through the mud and 
down a slippery stone pier. To the boys’ in- 
finite amusement, Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and 
Betty were established in the middle seat of 
the big dory, the borrowed raincoat entirely 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


159 


covering them, heads and all. As John and 
Philip stood on the pier they had a glimpse of 
the other passengers in the boat, and John, 
in his glee, almost let out the joke. 

“ If you could see what’s behind you, Betty, 

you’d Stop kicking me, Philip; they are, 

too, p ” But Philip’s hand covered John’s 

mouth and the sentence was not finished. 

Thus it happened that not until they were 
landing at Valentia Island did Mrs. Pitt and 
the girls know that the half-dozen passengers 
referred to were pigs! 

Shelter was found at the Royal Hotel, facing 
the bay and mainland, a hotel chill and empty, 
where painters were still at work preparing for 
the summer season. They ordered a bright 
peat fire in the drawing-room and there they 
passed the afternoon, kept inside by the per- 
sistent rain. Once Betty innocently seated 
herself on a broad window-seat and, to her 
consternation, found one side of her blue serge 
dress covered with white paint. At dinner, not 
being pleased with the soup which was served 
him, John tried to improve its flavor by pour- 
ing in a quantity of Royal Worcestershire 
Sauce, and adding pepper. The top of the 
pepper shaker fell off, and, although he 
tried to eat his “ improved ” soup, he burnt 
his tongue and flung down his spoon so sud- 
denly that Barbara dropped the salt, shaker 


160 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

and all, into her plate. Fortunately they had 
the dining-room to themselves, and could laugh 
at their series of disasters. 

At eight o’clock they had an appointment to 
see the Atlantic Cable station, so, donning rub- 
bers and raincoats, they trudged for half a mile 
along a muddy road. They were well repaid. 
John’s eyes were big with astonishment at what 
he saw. 

“We work all around the clock here, but 
our rush hours are from one to six p.m.; that’s 
why I asked you to wait till eight to visit the 
station,” the foreman explained. “ All the 
news of Europe passes through this southwest 
corner of Ireland, so we’ve plenty to keep us 
busy. Of course, you know that the Atlantic 
Cable was laid in 1866; there had been an un- 
successful attempt in 1857. Valentia was the 
first station established; we’re now the Anglo- 
American Cable, but soon we’re to be Western 
Union. The station at Newfoundland is almost 
two thousand miles away, but the man at that 
end is working this instrument which moves 
the tiny, glass, self-inked needle that traces the 
message, here in our office. Come; we’ll go in- 
side and you’ll see for yourselves.” 

In the few small rooms, men were feverishly 
working, receiving and retransmitting cable and 
telegraphic messages from all parts of the 
world, a copy of each one of these messages 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 161 

being automatically made and kept for refer- 
ence. The men’s movements and the queer in- 
struments on the littered tables were per- 
plexing. 

First, they watched the glass needle, invented 
by Lord Kelvin, as it rapidly traced messages 
on a narrow strip of paper which constantly 
unwound before the receiver. Very surely it 
worked, moved by the distant hand. 

“ Whenever no message is being received, 
the needle makes a straight line, like this. 
There are usually a few words of warning be- 
fore a message is sent. Now this man will 
cable for us to Newfoundland, and ask them 
what kind of weather they are having.” 

When the message had been dispatched, they 
turned to watch men at some of the other ta- 
bles. They saw how the strips of paper passed 
over a mucilage-like substance and, when cut 
into sections, were pasted on blanks with won- 
derful promptness. They saw mysterious tele- 
graph scrawls in queer characters on per- 
forated strips of paper, and were told that all 
messages had to go through processes of be- 
ing transposed from the wavy lines into char- 
acters and from characters into English, or 
French, or German. Then they hurried back to 
the receiver’s desk, where the answer to their 
message would arrive. When the needle 
stopped, the man cut off the bit of paper and 


1 62 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

presented it to John, who read it aloud: 
“ Senate passes Pension Bill — Big Suffrage 
Parade in New York — Weather cool and 
cloudy. ’ ’ 

As they were exclaiming over this message 
of their own, the overseer opened the door and 
bowed them out. Apparently their time was 
up, and they went through the rain, back to 
their hotel. 

The next morning being fair, they had a view 
of the narrow caves in the cliffs on the 
mainland, opposite Valentia, some of which 
are said to reach two hundred feet into the 
mountain. These caves were known to smug- 
glers in the old Spanish days, and one was 
used by John Paul Jones when he was a pirate, 
so the story goes. Old Ballymacarberry Cas- 
tle, once a stronghold of the MacCarthys, is 
also near the shore, on the mainland. The Eng- 
lish landlady told them a quaint story about 
this castle. 

“ At one time two brothers occupied it, and 
their wives had a terrible quarrel. The Mac- 
Carthy who lived on the lower floor was dis- 
agreeable enough to cut off the water supply, 
but this did not disturb his brother, who calmly 
substituted wine for water. There are under- 
ground and undersea passages from that castle 
to several points, and one of them could be 
entered if the air were not too foul. Oh, you ’ll 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


163 

not be going by this afternoon’s train, ma’amt 
Yon should see the Knight of Kerry’s fine 
demesne on the other side of the island; he 
has such beautiful ferns and enormous fuchsias ! 
And over there the cliffs and the waves are 
really superb! You’ll not see breakers any- 
where like those on the Valentia coast. You’ve 
quite determined? Very well, then; I’ll tell the 
boots to have your luggage down.” 

So they were once more escorted across the 
ferry by their still faithful friend of the day 
before, who did not leave them until he had 
them comfortably established in an empty car- 
riage and had shaken hands, wishing them good 
fortune on their Irish travels. Journeying 
back to Farranfore Junction, they found a train 
waiting to take them through Tralee to Lis- 
towel, where they booked seats on the Lar- 
tigue monorailway for Ballybunion, on the 
coast. 

4 4 Ballybunion ! ’ ’ Barbara giggled. 4 4 What 
a funny name ! Why are there so many 4 bal- 
lys,’ Mother? ” 

Mrs. Pitt, who had been busy checking their 
luggage in the cloakroom to await their re- 
turn to Listowel later in the day, turned to 
reply: 

44 Bally means town, don’t you know, and 
that is how it happens that so many Irish 
names begin with it. There’s Ballycastle, Bal- 


164 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

lymoney, Ballynahinch, Ballybrophy, Bally- 
mahon, and dozens more. And there are just 
as many ‘ kills ’ (meaning churches) I think, — 
Kilmacow, Kilmacthomas, Killrush, Kilkee, 

Killorglin, Kilmacrenan, Killaloe, and I 

believe it was that same Penelope , Kate Doug- 
las Wiggin’s heroine, who once asked a jarvey 
what was the meaning of the prefix, bally. The 
man thought for a moment, and then said: ‘ “ I 
don’t think there’s annything onderhanded in 
the meanin’, milady; I think it means bally, 
jist.” ’ ” 

They had hardly finished laughing over this, 
when John flung open the door to tell them 
that the train was ready. 

“ If you can call that thing a train! ” he 
added, grinning. “ How’s it ever going to run 
on that one high rail ? Say, Philip, you haven ’t 
seen it, have you ? Hurry up ; it ’s a beaut. ’ ’ 

The queer little railway carriages on this 
unique line are hung on a single rail high above 
the ground, and have seats running the length 
of, instead of across, the car. 

“ They’re like panniers on a donkey’s 
back! ” cried Betty. 

Before a start was made, the guards re- 
quested several passengers to move from one 
side to the other, regardless of doors marked 
First or Second Class, so as to make the 
proper balance. As a result, Mrs. Pitt and 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


165 

Philip were shut in with two laborers, while 
the others were on the opposite side of the 
train with a priest. After many preparations, 
a shrill whistle blew and every one looked 
expectant. 

“ It goes ! ” exclaimed the irrepressible John, 
as the train started with a jerk. “ What do yon 
think of that? Ringling’s Circus ought to have 
it! ” 

“ Feels like a queer rocking-chair, doesn’t 
it, Barbara? ” said Betty. 

A short ride brought them to Ballybunion, 
a delightful resort by the sea, where there are 
cliffs, caves, and sandy beaches. After lunch- 
eon, Mrs. Pitt sat on the grass near a ruined 
castle, with a wide sea view before her, writ- 
ing letters while the rest explored Ballybun- 
ion. All too soon it was time to take the toy 
train back to Listowel, where they caught a 
Limerick express. At ten o’clock that night 
they were too sleepy to notice many of the city 
sights, though John did observe that all the 
men seemed equipped for horseback riding, 
wearing knee-breeches and leggings of cloth 
or leather, and carrying whips. 

In the morning, this matter was explained. 
“ It’s the races,” said John breathlessly. 
“ Can we go? ” 

They did go, of course, as soon as they could 
find a jarvey with an empty car who would 


1 66 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

take them. Climbing on in George Street, Lim- 
erick’s business thoroughfare, they were off 
at such a reckless pace that Mrs. Pitt vowed 
if she ever got to Green Park alive she would 
walk every step of the way back. Between use- 
less appeals to the jarvey for mercy, she had 
to pull down the boys, who were constantly 
standing up and shouting. All exclamations 
were unheard, however, as they flew along the 
streets leading to the course, filled by hundreds 
of jaunting-cars, tearing along as madly as their 
own, men sitting one on top of the other or 
hanging on to anything of which they could 
catch hold. 

‘ 4 There are nine men and three boys on that 
car just behind us,” placid Barbara was heard 
to remark in a moment’s lull. “ I wonder it 
does not break, Mother.” 

At last they arrived without accident, paid 
their sixpence admission fees, and walked to- 
wards the double turf course, more than a mile 
long. There were flat, hurdle, and steeple- 
chase races which Philip and John followed 
with the enthusiasm of true “ sports.” The 
others were interested, too, but they were able 
at times to turn their eyes away from the racing 
horses. On the flag-decorated stands were 
ladies and gentlemen who applauded their fa- 
vorites; there were other people who stood up 
in their motor-cars to watch the jockeys, sport- 



Here was a village to creep into one’s heart. — Page 169 . 










IRISH HISTORY VISIT 167 

in g men, onlookers, and fakirs, who added to 
the gayety of the scene. 

It was difficult that afternoon to persuade the 
boys to stay in Limerick and resume the pro- 
saic business of sightseeing. But, at Mrs. Pitt’s 
insistence, they visited St. Mary’s Cathedral, 
and viewed the Treaty Stone and King John’s 
Castle, by the river Shannon. 

Limerick has been an important place since 
the Danes came to pit their strength against 
that of Malachy, King of Meath. The foreign- 
ers seem to have been numerous in the ninth 
century when Turgesius, ruler of the Danes, 
demanded that old King Malachy give him his 
lovely daughter as a bride. The Danes were 
so greatly feared that the king dared not re- 
fuse, but he cunningly stipulated that his 
daughter should be accompanied by fifteen of 
her ladies. The Dane agreed, planning to give 
these attendants to fifteen of his warriors. The 
day came for the ladies to go to the castle, and 
Turgesius was on the point of claiming his 
bride, when the fifteen ladies threw off their 
robes and showed themselves so many stout, 
armed Irish soldiers. The Danes were easily 
overcome, and the Irish flung open the gates to 
King Malachy and his troops. 

“ Did King John of England build this cas- 
tle? ” Betty inquired, looking from across the 


1 68 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

river at its solid six-century-old walls and 
towers. 

u Yes, an ancient historian tells us that the 
king was ‘ so pleased with the agreeableness of 
the city that he caused a very fine castle and 
bridge to be built there.’ In the time of Rich- 
ard I., Limerick was the next largest city to 
Dublin, and was granted a charter, permitting 
it to elect a mayor, a century before either 
Dublin or London obtained this privilege. But, 
of course, Limerick’s fame rests on the part 
it played in the struggle between King James 
and King William. After the Battle of the 
Boyne and James’s departure for England, 
King William and his followers besieged Lim- 
erick for three weeks. One of the generals in 
the besieging army, looking at the city, which 
was very poorly prepared for a siege, scoff- 
ingly said that Limerick ‘ could be taken with 
roasted apples ’ ; but he did not know the Irish. 
When the enemy had managed to cross the 
bridge and were in the very streets of the city, 
the old men, the women, and the children joined 
in the fight and drove back King William’s 
men. The enemy then marched to Athlone, 
which they besieged and took, later returning 
to make another attack upon Limerick. The 
second siege was made just a year later, and 
was soon successful, William’s general, Ginkle, 
and the great Irish leader, Sarsfield, agreeing 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 169 

upon terms. The treaty of peace was signed 
on the third day of October, in 1691, on this 
very stone. Yes, it has since been mounted on 
this pedestal, John, to preserve it better. ” 

Late that afternoon they took a train to 
Adare, a lovely little town not far from busy 
Limerick. Here, on the Earl of Dunraven’s 
demesne, are the ruins of a Franciscan Abbey 
and of an old castle which once belonged to 
the powerful Desmond family. Close by are 
two Augustinian abbeys, the Black Abbey and 
the White Abbey, but these have both been re- 
stored. The interest of these ruins is enhanced 
by the fair setting which nature has provided 
for them, — supplemented by Lord Dunraven’s 
care — a little river, low, green meadows, great 
trees, several glorious horsechestnuts in full 
bloom, smooth lawns, and gravel paths. 

As evening drew on, and they returned to 
Adare, even the three English members of the 
party admitted the village to be as lovely as 
any in England. At the curve in the road 
were the vine-covered entrance gates of the 
demesne ; opposite their attractive inn, the 
Dunraven Arms, was a row of charming white- 
washed old cottages, with curving thatched 
roofs behind trim green hedges. Here was a 
village to creep into one’s heart! 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


A TRIO OF CASTLES 

Their jaunting-car, surely the largest and 
clumsiest in all Ireland, stopped at an old 
gateway and neglected lodge. Beyond stretched 
a grass-grown driveway, all its ancient, gray 
trees untrimmed and many dead. No one was 
in sight, and the place was absolutely still. 

“ Anything doing? ” inquired John, ad- 
justing the strap of his camera over his 
shoulder. 

Mrs. Pitt laughed. “Pm not sure,” she said, 
“ but I think we may venture. Perhaps we 
would be more sure of a welcome if we left 
the car here at the gate and walked the rest of 
the way.” 

Having instructed the jarvey to wait, they 
followed the little-used drive. For some dis- 
tance it ran in a straight line, between low- 
lying meadows; then, with a turn, it brought 
them in sight of Ffranckfort Castle. 

“ ‘ The only moated grange in Ireland! ’ ” 
exclaimed Betty. “ Doesn’t that sound like a 
book? ” 

The whole place was as like a book as its 

170 








IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


171 

name. Standing far within the borders of a 
wide demesne, surrounded first by a deep moat, 
filled with water from a mountain stream, and 
then by an ivy-covered wall with towers at the 
corners, the old house seems to be still part 
of the age when it was built, perhaps four hun- 
dred years ago. Here the thought of cities with 
their hurry and confusion, comes to one only 
like a troubled dream. The nearest town, only 
a little market-place, said to have been founded 
in 620, is seven long Irish miles away. 

John made them all pose while he photo- 
graphed them with the castle for a background, 
lest, as he explained, they should get “ stung ” 
and he could not do this later. Then they boldly 
crossed the drawbridge and found themselves 
in the inclosure before the house, the lawns bor- 
dered by gay flower beds. The many-paned win- 
dows of the castle, the main part of which is 
three stories high, were flung open. Mounting 
the few steps to the nail-studded old door, Mrs. 
Pitt knocked. Betty stood close behind. 

After a short delay, a maid received Mrs. 
Pitt’s request and vanished. As they waited 
they had a glimpse of a square hall, with dark 
paneling and a corner fireplace over which hung 
a portrait. Then a tall, pleasant lady came to- 
wards them, actually seeming glad to welcome 
them. 

“ Show you Ffranckfort Castle? ” she re- 


172 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

peated. u Do you care to see it! Indeed, we’ll 
be only too proud to show you all we have. 
Come in, won ’t you ! Yes, all of you. Of course, 
you’ll have tea first. My niece will be so glad 
to see you, and perhaps the Major, too, although 
he is not very well now. ’ ’ 

They followed her into a drawing-room with 
a fine arched ceiling, where they drank tea and 
ate little cakes, chatting pleasantly with the two 
ladies of the castle. 

“ Say, this is bully! ” said John, accepting a 
second piece of plum cake. “ Thanks. We 
didn’t know whether you’d even let us rubber 
at things through the gate.” 

Betty was asking if Ffranckfort really was 
1 6 the only moated grange in Ireland, ’ ’ and just 
what a “ grange ” was, anyhow. 

“ Oh, it means a kind of farmhouse,” Miss 
R. replied; “ I think that’s what Americans 
would call it. You see, this is more like a 
manor-house than a castle. And, as to the moat, 
— why, I suppose it is the only one, at least in 
this part of the country; but I really don’t know. 
You see, I’ve always lived here. Sometimes I 
make visits in Ireland, and occasionally I go 
to London, too; but I’ve never been out of the 
British Isles. Just fancy! And you’ve come 
from America ! It must be splendid there, with 
so much to see and do.” 

“ Yes,” said Betty, “ but I love it here. I 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


173 

believe we’d like to change places. Wouldn’t 
it be funny if we could? ” 

Laughing, they passed through the hall again 
to go outdoors. To reach the garden, they 
crossed the moat, going first through one of 
the round turrets in the wall. 

“ Is it haunted? ” asked Mrs. Pitt, in jest. 

“ Well,” Miss H., their hostess, answered^ 
“ I’ve never seen anything, but I’ve often felt 
a presence. You can’t mistake the feeling, you 
know. But wait until you see Leap Castle; 
there are ghosts there. Leap has the ghosts, 
but we have the moat. It’s a friendly rivalry. 
Oh, yes, Mrs. Darby will welcome you to Leap. 
We all live so quietly, here in the country, that 
it’s our greatest pleasure to have people come 
to see us. Here’s the garden. That box hedge 
is four hundred years old, and the bush peony 
has been growing here for five hundred years.” 

The gardens of Ffranckfort Castle are full 
of charm, the old paths winding among beds, 
borders, and shrubberies that have flourished 
while generations at the castle lived and died. 
Here and there, across the flowers, one gets 
glimpses of the battlemented walls and the moat 
below. Two enormous trees, blown down in 
“ the big wind,” lie across the moat, just as 
they fell ; in that corner of Ireland it is no easy 
matter to find means for removing them. At 
the foot of the garden is a lawn-tennis court. 


i74 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ Yon play? ” Philip asked the younger lady. 

u Oh, yes, when I have any one to play with 
me,” she replied. 

Next the stableyard was inspected. Here 
they saw an old-fashioned coach, in which the 
Major’s father and mother toured Europe on 
their wedding journey. 

4 4 It ’s all rotting away, ’ ’ said Miss H. ; 44 the 
other day I took out the old chintz lining and 
I am making it into a valance for my bed.” 

Returning to the front of the castle, they 
found the Major, who had come out from his 
library to meet them. He urged them to remain 
for tea, but, after lingering for a short talk 
on the lawn, Mrs. Pitt said they must start back 
to Roscrea. 

44 Thank you for being so kind to us,” said 
Betty to Miss R. 44 I hope you will come to 
America some day. I’d love to have you, but 
I couldn’t show you any place half so nice as 
Ffranckfort Castle. ’ ’ 

With many backward glances they went 
slowly down the driveway and, mounting the 
outside-car, drove back through Roscrea and 
seven miles beyond it, to Leap Castle, 44 the 
most haunted castle in Ireland.” 

As they neared the ancestral home of the 
0 ’Carrolls, the sun hid behind a hill, leaving 
the castle shut in darkly by great trees with 
heavy foliage. From the drawing-room win- 



Leap has the ghosts, but we have the moat.”— Page 173. 














' 



















. 





IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i75 


dows, however, they found a cheerful view ex- 
tending across a broad valley where the sun 
still lay warm on the fields. This ancient room 
made a strange setting for the more modern 
rugs, furniture, and paintings with which it 
was filled. 

Mrs. Darby soon appeared. She had been 
riding, it seemed, for she wore a dusty habit, 
carried a whip, and was bareheaded. Brusquely 
flinging open the door, she strode up to Betty, 
who happened to be nearest, and shook her hand 
cordially, saying, ‘ ‘ Ah, some American cousins, 
I see! '' 

“ Oh, no! '' Betty hastened to correct this 
wrong impression. “ We're not related at all, 
and only two of us are Americans. We wanted 
to see your castle, and we thought '' 

But Mrs. Darby was not listening to Betty, 
neither did she seem to give much heed to Mrs. 
Pitt's offered explanations. Sweeping all such 
details aside, she sat down and related tales 
of the castle. One after the other she rattled 
off old legends, stories of scandals, sieges, mur- 
ders, betrayals, escapes, captures, treasure- 
hidings, and treasure-findings. She had them 
all at her tongue 's end, and was extraordinarily 
proud of them, no matter how much they dis- 
graced her husband's family. Her guests were 
so astonished that they were unable to follow 
this fluent mixture of fact and fable. 


i 7 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

At the first opportunity, Mrs. Pitt inter- 
rupted her with: “ Oh, pardon me, but will you 
repeat that story of how Leap first came into 
possession of the Darbys? ” 

“ Ah, to be sure! Yes, yes! It was through 
a daughter of the 0 ’Carrolls who was in love 
with Jonathan Darby, a prisoner in Leap Cas- 
tle. She sacrificed her family’s safety and 
helped her lover to escape, you see. Some tales 
have it that he leaped on horseback from the 
terrace to the valley below; some say he jumped 
into the branches of a great yew tree. And 
then, again, it may not have been Jonathan 
Darby at all who took the leap, but some one 
else, much farther back in the castle’s history; 
for the 0 ’Carrolls were famous all over Ireland, 
— Princes of Ely they were. 

Lords to whom great men submit 

Are the O’Carrolls of the plain of Birr; 

Princes of Ely as far as the lofty Slieve Bloom, 

The most hospitable land in Erin. 

“ ‘ Eight districts and eight chiefs are ruled 

By the valiant Princes of Ely of the land of herds. 

Valiant in enforcing their tributes 
Are the troops of the yellow-ringleted hair/ 


And their castle of Leap was one of the 
strongest in the country, practically impregna- 
ble in those days. The oldest part is the cen- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


177 


tral tower, of course; that it was built by the 
Danes is shown by the fact that it tapers 
slightly. That’s a proof of its ancient origin, 
my dears. Next oldest is the ‘ Priest’s House,’ 
now part of one of the wings. In repairing it 
not long ago, they found a beam bearing the 
date 1314. The Danish tower formerly had four 
stories, besides two that were underground. 
From these there was a subterranean passage 
connecting them with a rath in a distant field, 
making it easy, you know, to get supplies in 
case of siege. Up in the tower is a haunted 
chapel where an O’Carroll murdered a priest, 
his brother, who had presumed to say mass be- 
fore he arrived. The ghost of the priest walks 
there, carrying his head under his arm. No 
one knows how many murders there have been 
in the castle. Not long ago we found an oubli- 
ette full of bones; my husband had three cart- 
loads of them taken out and buried in the church- 
yard. Among the bones was found a watch, prov- 
ing that not all the murders were ancient, after 
all. But will you climb the tower and see the 
chapel? ” 

They were eager enough to satisfy even en- 
thusiastic Mrs. Darby, so they all followed their 
hostess up the winding stair, carrying candles. 
Mrs. Darby now pointed out the door of a cham- 
ber which no one would occupy because of its 
ghosts; now she showed them a niche in the 


1 78 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

old wall made by her own hands, for she is fond 
of searching out secrets of the castle. 

“ Maybe she hunts for the lost gold,” whis- 
pered John, after they had heard the story of 
an ancestor of the present J onathan Darby who, 
being suspected of Jacobite sympathies, sought 
safety in flight, first having entrusted his treas- 
ure to a servant who was soon afterwards 
killed. 

“ Mr. Darby hates his bloody ancestors,” 
they were told presently, “ and he refuses to 
search for their bones or their gold. He’s 
afraid of finding more scandalous stories. But 
I often come up here and dig. Yes, I’ve seen 
ghosts by day and by night, — sometimes when 
as many as two other witnesses were with me. 
Ah! you may laugh if you like, Mrs. Pitt, but 
I must believe it. And, every night at eleven- 
thirty the dogs bark. It never fails. Explain 
that, if you can.” 

Just then they stepped out from the turret 
stairway into the dusky chapel, and went on up 
a ladder to the top of the castle keep. It was 
growing dark, and Betty gave a startled little 
jump when a door suddenly slammed behind 
them. 

It was a relief to some members of 
the party to descend the dark turret stair, 
cross the stately entrance hall, and finally 
to step out upon the lawn where Mr. Darby was 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


179 


strolling with his dogs. The owner of Leap 
Castle professed a scorn for the old legends 
and for his disreputable ancestors. 

“ I should like to sell my castle to a rich 
American from the Waldorf- Astoria,” re- 
marked Jonathan Darby, “ and then build my- 
self a new house.” 

Betty wondered if he could mean what he 
said. Even as he spoke, his wife was telling 
Mrs. Pitt one more strange tale of the Darby 
family. 

“ A Jonathan Darby never succeeds his fa- 
ther as heir to the estate,” she said, in mys- 
terious tones. “ My husband succeeded his 
grandfather, and my own first child, a Jonathan 
Darby, died in infancy. You see, I have reason 
to believe in the curse pronounced on the fam- 
ily by a girl over whom two Darby brothers 
were quarreling. She interfered, being mortally 
wounded, and, before dying prophesied that no 
Jonathan Darby should ever succeed his father. 
Not one ever has done so.” 

“ Pd like a chance to stay with those dogs 
at night, and find out what happens to ’em at 
half-past eleven. I bet Pd find out,” remarked 
confident John. 

His sister marveled at his daring, deeply pon- 
dering the fearsome tales of Leap Castle, as 
they drove back to Boscrea. When it came time 
to go to bed in a low room of the queer little 


180 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

inn, she and Barbara were of one mind, — to 
sleep together for mutual protection if ghosts 
from Leap Castle should stray in. 

Boscrea is near the center of Ireland. In the 
country about it are broad, brown boglands over 
which grows a quantity of yellow furze. John 
and Betty were pleased to see a few genuine 
American stone walls, uncovered by any vines, 
an unusual sight in Ireland. 

u I’ll bet the man who built ’em had been to 
‘ the States, ’ ’ ’ observed J ohn. 

They were on their way from Boscrea to Birr, 
or Parsonstown, a place made up of little shops 
and inns, and an attractive shady street of vil- 
las, with the great castle and its demesne at 
the end. The porter at the lodge was doubtful 
about letting them in, as it was not a visitors’ 
day; and the butler who opened the imposing 
castle door frowned sternly upon them, pointing 
the way to a back entrance. Upon applying 
here, they were advised to see the housekeeper 
and, going through some dark passages, they 
came to her room. 

“ Do you know,” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, “ it 
has been one of my ambitions to see the house- 
keeper’s room in a castle. I’ve read about so 
many in novels ! This one is quite ideal — really ! 
See the shabby armchairs and the faded red 
carpet, once in the drawing-rooms upstairs; 
and the broken bric-a-brac and the nicked 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 181 

china, with the family crest, on the shelf over 
the grate. There are sealed jars of preserves 
in that cupboard. Those mahogany dining- 
room chairs are really fine. Isn’t it perfect, 
Betty? ” 

Betty smilingly agreed, but Barbara and the 
boys were busy playing with a white kitten that 
had been asleep in an armchair. Just then the 
housekeeper entered, and she had stepped from 
the pages of a novel, like her room. She wore 
a black dress, her skirt covered with a snowy 
apron ; a crisp little cap was pinned to her white 
hair, and there were mitts on her hands. She 
had a kind, motherly face, and when she saw 
the children and her kitten, she smiled. Mrs. 
Pitt then suspected that the battle was won, and 
it was. 

“ It’s hardly in order to admit you on a Tues- 
day,” said the housekeeper, tossing a ball of 
yarn to the kitten ; ‘ 4 but, as her Ladyship left 
for London yesterday, I’ll send a housemaid to 
show you through. You’ll not mind if the rooms 
are all in disorder? We’re busy turning them 
out now. Lord Oxmantown and Lady Bridget 
are here until to-morrow, but they’ll only be 
glad to see the strangers.” 

“ Oh, perhaps they won’t like it! ” sighed 
Betty, in awe of titled people. 

“ Bless your little heart, dear! They’re not 
as big as their names, you know. Lord Oxman- 


i 82 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


town is five and a half, and little Lady Bridget 
had her third birthday last week.” 

Thus reassured, they were led by a prim maid 
through many drawing-rooms, full of beautiful 
things, along broad corridors, and into the state 
dining-room. Sturdy little Lord Oxmantown 
and his sister, in a blue dress, played a shy 
game of hide-and-seek with the visitors. They 
scampered about, peeping out from unexpected 
nooks ; and once the boy opened the sliding panel 
of an ebony cabinet to take out a toy engine. 
Leaving the children behind, they went upstairs 
and entered so many bedrooms, the maid always 
explaining, “ This is a lady’s room,” or, “ This 
is another gentleman’s room,” that Mrs. Pitt 
finally thanked her and said that they really 
could see no more. 

It was raining when they went out again. A 
rapid walk took them within sight of the cele- 
brated Birr telescope, the invention of a mem- 
ber of the family who was a famous astronomer. 
Hurrying back to the station after this, they 
took a train on to Athlone. It was after dark 
when they drove to the Prince of Wales Ho- 
tel, crossing the bridge over the Shannon where 
the fight was hottest during the siege of the 
place by William III.’s forces, in 1691. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

ATHLONE, “ THE DESERTED VILLAGE,” AND GALWAY 

Athlone people are proud of Loch Ree, or 
Lake of the Kings, with its prettily wooded 
shores, its waving grasses, and its numerous 
islands on several of which are remains of early 
Christian churches. On Seven Churches, or 
Quaker Island, was the residence of Queen 
Meav, or Mab, and here she was killed by an 
Ulster chieftain’s sling and stone. 

“ Queen Mab! ” exclaimed Betty. “ Wasn’t 
she an English fairy queen, Mrs. Pitt? ” 

“ Yes, according to Shakespeare,” answered 
Mrs. Pitt. “ But in another legend, Mab was 
an Irish warrior queen who ruled eighty-eight 
years in Connaught. She was not noted for 
gentleness and modesty, but was very fierce, go- 
ing into battle with the men as did other Irish 
women of the days of Ossian, Fingal, and 
Cuchulain, — the days of the verse: 

“ 1 Long, long ago, beyond the space 
Of twice two thousand years, 

In Erin old there lived a race 
Taller than Roman spears/ 

183 


1 8 4 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Queen Meav had violent loves and hates; she 
plotted, fought, and took vengeance upon her 
enemies ; but, in the end, she retired to yonder 
island, where she was murdered as her hus- 
band, King Ailell, had been. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Pitt had hired a motor-car at Athlone, 
and, after they had skirted Loch Ree, they went 
on through Edgeworthstown, where the novel- 
ist, Maria Edgeworth, lived ; to Pallas, the hum- 
ble little village where Oliver Goldsmith was 
born; then on towards Lissoy, his “ Deserted 
Village.” 

Barbara remembered the beginning of the 
poem: 

“ 1 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheer’d the labouring swain, 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting Summer’s lingering blooms delay’d: 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please: 

How often have I loitered o’er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear’d each scene I 
How often have I paused on every charm, 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topp’d the neighbouring hill; 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made! 

How often have I bless’d the coming day, 

When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labour free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree! 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 185 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old survey’d; 

And many a gambol frolick’d o’er the ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength weflt round; 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired — 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 

By holding out to tire each other down; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter titter’d round the place; 

The bashful virgin’s sidelong looks of love; 

The matron’s glance, that would those looks reprove; 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled.’ ” 

When Barbara had finished, Mrs. Pitt was 
ready with some lines describing the village 
preacher : — 

“ 1 A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 

Nor e’er had changed, nor wish’d to change, his place; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour; 

Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize, 

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train, 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 

The long-remember’d beggar was his guest, 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 

The ruin’d spendthrift, now no longer proud, 

Claim’d kindred there, and had his claims allow’d; 


1 86 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, 

Sat by the fire, and talk’d the night away; 

Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder’d his crutch, and show’d how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn’d to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave ere charity began.’ ” 

6 6 I know the part about the old schoolmas- 
ter/ ’ exclaimed John, promptly beginning: 

“ 1 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom’d furze, unprofitably gay, 

There, in his noisy mansion, skill’d to rule, 

The village master taught his little school; 

A man severe he was, and stern to view, 

I knew him well, and every truant knew : ’ ” 

John gave this last line with such an air of 
understanding that every one laughed; then he 
lost his place, and Philip had to finish: 

“ 1 Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace 
The day’s disasters in his morning face; 

Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 

Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 

Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d; 

Yet he was land, or if severe in aught, 

The love he bore to learning was in fault; 

The village all declared how much he knew; 

’Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And even the story ran that he could gauge. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


187 


In arguing, too, the parson own’d his skill, 

For even though vanquish’d, he could argue still; 
While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.’ ” 


As for Betty, she even remembered about the 
village inn, with its 4 4 nicely sanded floor 
and, when any one forgot a line, she could al- 
ways supply it. And so reciting, they drove 
through the ideal little village of Glassen, on 
one side of whose single street were wide- 
spreading trees and on the other picturesque 
thatched or red-tiled cottages, overrun with 
vines and gay with flowers. Ascending a hill, 
they were at last in the “ Deserted Village.” 

“ It’s deserted, sure enough! ” muttered 
John, looking over the green fields and down 
a grassy, hedge-bordered lane. “ Where ’ve 
they all gone? ” 

“ Why, they were gone even when Goldsmith 
wrote,” Betty reminded him gently. “ There 
never were people here, — oh, well, of course 
there were people and houses once, but it was 
long ago, when Goldsmith was very little and 
his father was the village preacher. He was 
so kind to everybody, Mrs. Pitt; I shouldn’t 
think they would have gone away.” 


1 8 8 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

It needs no little imagination and much fa- 
miliarity with the poem to find any vestige of 
this village of Goldsmith’s youth to which he 
so longed to return. The “ glassy brook ” is 
there, reflecting the green rushes and the blue 
sky, and a steeple, a mile away, tells us that 
a church still occupies the site of that ‘ 6 decent 
church ” where Goldsmith’s father preached, 
also his brother, Henry. But the ‘ 1 busy mill, ’ ’ 
and the Goldsmith house are both ruins now, 
overgrown by weeds. Yet the pleasant coun- 
try scene, with its gentle hills and valleys, its 
green hedges and irregular pastures, its shel- 
tering trees and familiar wild flowers, certainly 
has the spirit of the “ Deserted Village.” 

That afternoon they journeyed towards the 
western country of Connemara, going as far as 
Galway, which a native once called “ nothing 
but an old box of ruins.” 

It rained practically the whole two days that 
they were there. Not once could they leave 
the hotel without umbrellas, and it was from 
under them that they saw Galway’s narrow 
streets and alleys, the Corrib River, famous for 
its salmon fishing, Galway’s few interesting 
buildings, and the Claddagh. 

“ It’s a sad old place, I think,” said Mrs. 
Pitt. “ From early times Galway was famed 
for its rich merchants who carried on brisk 
trade, particularly with Spain, supplying nearly 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


189 

all Ireland with wine. Its ancient name, Clan- 
firgail, means ‘ the land of gail,’ or merchants. 
Spanish people came here to live, too, and a 
few of their houses, with arched doorways, 
courtyards, and balconies, are still to be seen. 
Yes, Betty, we’ll come to them soon. In 1226, 
when the place was taken by Richard de Burgo, 
twelve families known as the ‘ Tribes of Gal- 
way,’ settled here, and Galway became a flour- 
ishing English colony. The citizens found it 
necessary to forbid all intercourse with the na- 
tive Irish. An old law of 1518 declared that 
1 neither O’ nor Mac shall strutte or swaggere 
thro’ the streets of Galway ’; and over one of 
the city gates was written: 

“ 1 From the fury of the O’Flaherties, 

Good Lord, deliver us.’ 

The O’Flaherties were members of a powerful 
Irish tribe who ruled in this part of Connemara. 

“ But the days of Galway’s grandeur will 
probably never return. Not long ago an at- 
tempt was made to have ocean liners stop here, 
the harbor being eight hours nearer New York 
than Queenstown. Twenty thousand pounds 
were spent in constructing docks, jetties and 
basins, but when one great ship foundered upon 
a forgotten reef near the town, the plan was 
abandoned. Galway is a city of the past.” 

Just opposite the Station Hotel, in the midst 


190 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

of a barren square, they found a little park 
with rain-soaked paths. At one end is a frag- 
ment of an old house, a handsome door with 
an oriel window above, which, strangely enough, 
has been preserved and now serves as an en- 
trance to the park. This was formerly the town 
house of Martin Browne. It is elaborately 
carved and bears the date 1627, and the names 
of the owner and of his wife, Marie Lynch. 

“ Poor Marie Lynch! ” signed Betty; “ I 
don’t believe she’d like to see her front door 
set up in this ugly square. She must have 
looked out that window so many times! And 
now there’s no room behind it. I don’t like 
to see it very much ; I feel as if somebody had 
just died.” 

They walked on down Galway’s main streets, 
where there are a few signs of modern civili- 
zation, — tiny shops, a newspaper office, an odd 
little horsecar jolting on its way to Salthill, a 
seaside resort. Soon they came to the house 
called “ Lynch’s Castle,” decorated with 
weather-worn carvings and inscriptions, tall, 
square, and solid. 

“ Is this where your Marie lived, Betty? ” 
inquired Barbara. 

“ I guess so,” looking at Mrs. Pitt question- 
ingly. “ It’s very dark and big, but it’s a real 
castle, isn’t it? ” 

This once magnificent building was the home 



“It’s very dark and big, but it’s a real castle, isn’t it ?” 

Page 190. 


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IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


191 

of the Lynch family for many generations. Its 
most celebrated owner was James Lynch Fitz- 
stephen, mayor of Galway in 1493, whose justice 
was “ stern and unbending.’ ’ This is his grew- 
some story, as it is related to every tourist. 
A son of the mayor had taken part in a mutiny 
on shipboard, the plan being to kill its captain 
and take possession of his property. Later 
the young man was brought to trial and was 
condemned to death, with his own father acting 
as judge. Friends and relatives arranged to go 
to the older man, begging him to have mercy 
on his son; but Judge Lynch, hearing of their 
plans and fearing that he might be over- 
persuaded, hanged his son from one of the win- 
dows of this house, before they could present 
the petition. 

“ On the further side of St. Nicholas’ church- 
yard,” said Mrs. Pitt, “ the prison window is 
let into the wall, and over it are the words, ‘ Re- 
member Deathe — vaniti of vaniti, and all is but 
vaniti.’ One version of the story has it that the 
hanging took place from the window of a prison 
which once stood there.” 

After walking through Galway’s quaint 
streets, most of them lined with tumble-down, 
wretched houses, they went into St. Nicholas’ 
Church, reputed to be the third oldest in Ire- 
land. The exterior is quaint and unusual, the 
west front having three windows, each of a dif- 


192 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

ferent design; and the interior, with its fine 
Norman arches, is quite as interesting. 

“ Here’s the Lynch family vault,” said Mrs. 
Pitt presently, “ this low, square one in the 
south transept, with carvings but no inscrip- 
tion. These two side altars were also built by 
Lynch, one to his own family and one to Mar- 
tin Browne.” 

“ Look here! This is great! ” cried John. 
‘ ‘ The fellow in this tomb was named Pope ; and 
his ancestor sailed with Columbus when we were 
discovered. D’you get that, Betty? ” 

His sister assented, but she was absorbed in 
some quaint tombs in the floor of the nave. 

“ See,” she said, “ they have signs instead 
of letters. This one has scissors, and here are 
three hammers.” 

“ They show what the man’s business was,” 
explained Mrs. Pitt. “ The one with the three 
hammers was a goldsmith, of course ; the shears 
would indicate either a tailor or a barber. How 
odd! ” 

Galway peasant women wear short petticoats 
of scarlet wool, usually having an overskirt, ar- 
ranged in festoons. When the petticoats are 
new, their owners slip them over their heads 
and wear them to church instead of shawls. The 
women are very proud of them, and tourists en- 
joy these bright spots of color among the black- 
ened old buildings. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i93 


Across a bridge from tbe city, along one 
shore of the bay, is the Claddagh, a settlement 
of fisherfolk. In olden times these people, who 
are said to have Spanish blood, — and look it, — 
never mixed with the citizens of the town ; even 
to-day the Claddagh fishermen and those across 
the narrow bay are not always on the best of 
terms. The Claddagh men wear queer, much- 
patched clothes, hats with broad brims and 
crowns slightly pointed. The women wear the 
same scarlet skirts as the women of the town, 
but their hair and complexions are darker. 

“ Their houses are set in the same funny 
way that they are near home, in Marblehead, ’ ’ 
said Betty. “ They’re back to back, or corner 
to corner, or any way at all. And they’re all 
whitewashed and thatched, aren’t they? It’s 
dreadful how they let the cows and the pigs walk 
everywhere! And I should think they’d shut 
the upper part of their doors, so people couldn’t 
see inside! ” 

“ I say, Mother,” began Philip, going up to 
Mrs. Pitt and speaking in a low tone, “ some 
of the old women have such queer gold rings 
on.” 

u They are wedding rings,” Mrs. Pitt replied. 
“ I’ve read that every bride, no matter how 
poor, must have a solid gold one. No marriage 
is ever performed without one of those rings ; 
and sometimes a woman has three, — her grand- 


194 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

mother’s, her mother’s, and her own. They 
have a strange design, a heart in the center, held 
by two hands. The first one was given by a 
king of the Claddagh to his bride, about the 
year 1700. The Claddagh still has a king who 
settles many of the disputes, although the peo- 
ple are bound to obey the municipal laws, as 
well. There are other unique customs, I am 
told. Isn’t it interesting? ” 

Down by the Claddagh quay, fishermen were 
lounging and smoking in groups; even the 
women did not seem busy and stared with mild 
curiosity as Mrs. Pitt and the rest trailed past, 
on the way back to the hotel. 

“ Did I tell you that these ‘ Twelve Tribes 
of Galway ’ are descended from the twelve sons 
of Cart, son of the king of the castle of Bwee- 
Sonnee, — he who found the ‘ Well of D’Yerree- 
in-Dowan,’ or ‘ well at the end of the world ’? 
Douglas Hyde tells us all about that in his de- 
lightful book of legends, called ‘ Beside the 
Fire.’ ” 

“ That’s just where we are now,” said Betty, 
as Mrs. Pitt finished, “ ‘ beside the fire.’ It’s 
nice, isn’t it, to be in here where it’s so warm 
and pleasant? I wonder if it will ever stop 
raining outside.” 

“ Lady Gregory in her 1 Kiltartan History 
Book,’ ” continued Mrs. Pitt, “ tells some fas- 
cinating stories about Goban Saor, the Builder, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


i95 

who 4 learned no trade, but was master of six- 
teen^ The Goban came from County Galway, 
so I thought perhaps you would like me to read 
to you about him to-night/ ’ 

When Philip had brought the book from his 
mother’s room, Mrs. Pitt first explained that 
Kiltartan is the name of the barony in which 
Lady Gregory, the Irish author, lives ; and that 
she relates these tales as nearly as possible 
as she hears them from the mouths of beggars, 
pipers, traveling men, or inmates of the work- 
house. Then she began : 

44 4 The Goban was the master of sixteen 
trades. There was no beating him ; he had got 
the gift. He went one time to Quin Abbey 
when it was building, looking for a job, and 
the men were going to their dinner, and he had 
poor clothes, and they began to jibe at him, 
and the foreman said, 44 Make now a cat-and- 
nine-tails while we are at our dinner, if you 
are any good . 9 9 And he took the chisel and cut 
in the rough of the stone a cat with nine tails 
coming from it, and there it was complete when 
they came out from their dinner. There was 
no beating him. He learned no trade, but he 
was master of sixteen. That is the way a man 
that has no gift will get more out of his own 
brain than another will get through learning. 
. . . The Goban Saor was a mason and a smith, 
and he could do all things, and he was very 
witty. . . . Himself and his son were walking 
the road together one day, and the Goban said 


1 96 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

to the son, 44 Shorten the road for me.” So the 
son began to walk fast, thinking that would do 
it, but the Goban sent him back home when he 
did not know what to do. The next day they 
were walking again, and the Goban said again 
to shorten the road for him, and this time he 
began to run, and the Goban sent him home 
again. When he went in and told the wife 
(whom the Goban had selected for him) he was 
sent home the second time, she began to think, 
and she said, 44 When he bids you shorten the 
road, it is that he wants you to be telling him 
stories.” For that is what the Goban meant, 
but it took the daughter-in-law to understand it. 
. . . The Goban and his son were seven years 
building the castle, and they never said a word 
all that time. And at the end of seven years 
the son was at the top, and he said, 44 I hear 
a cow lowing.” And the Goban said then, 
44 Make all strong below you, for the work is 
done, ’ ’ and they went home. The Goban never 
told the secret of his building, and when he was 
on the bed dying they wanted to get it from 
him, and they went in and said, 4 4 Claregalway 
Castle is after falling in the night.” And the 
Goban said, 44 How can that be when I put a 
stone in and a stone out and a stone across? ” 
So then they knew the way he built so well ! ’ 


44 The Goban had a wishing hat, too,” Mrs. 
Pitt went on, 44 which brought him all that he 
desired. Isn’t he an interesting person, Betty? 
He is really the same person, you know, as 
Giobniu, the smith of olden times, who made a 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


197 


new sword and a new spear to replace every 
one that was broken in a great battle between 
the gods and the Fomor. Giobniu’s father could 
stop the incoming tide with his hatchet; and 
Giobnin himself made the ale of eternal youth. ’ 1 
Mrs. Pitt read in conclusion : 

‘ ‘ Later he became a saint, a master builder, 
builder of a house “ more shining than a gar- 
den ; with its stars, with its sun, with its moon. ’ ’ 
To-day he is known as the builder of the round 
towers of the early Christian centuries, and of 
the square castles of the Anglo-Normans . 9 ” 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


IN THE FAR WEST 

There is no town at Recess, — only a railway 
station and a neighboring hotel, set down in 
the midst of green trees and almost tropical 
flowers and shrubs. Beyond this oasis lie the 
treeless, brown bogs, the stony Connemara 
monntains, and the solemn blue loughs. 

“ Come on up this path, Phil. Race you to 
the top! ” 

They were returning from a walk along the 
bleak road beside the lough, when, not far from 
the hotel grounds, they saw the long slope of a 
mountain. 

“ We’ll come, too,” said Mrs. Pitt briskly. 
“ I think there must be a marble quarry some- 
where near. The Connemara marble is green 
and pretty, even in the rough. ’ ’ 

So they climbed the slope which at first was 
covered with moss, scanty grasses and reeds, 
and occasional patches of heather. Soon they 
came upon great bowlders strewing the way, 
and after that a ridge with a little poor, thin 
soil among the gray rocks. 

“ Why, potatoes have been planted, even 

198 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


199 


’way up here! ” Betty exclaimed. “ See! — 
there in those tiny, walled-in fields. There must 
be a village. ’ ’ 

A boy just then made his appearance from 
behind a huge rock. In his hand were small 
pieces of green, streaked marble from a quarry 
and, two or three members of the party having 
accepted these as souvenirs, the lad became 
their guide, leading the way towards the hud- 
dled cottages and the quarry. He had always 
lived there, he said, and he good-naturedly told 
them about his life and his neighbors. 

Most families keep a pig, but few can afford 
to kill it for their own use, he explained. They 
usually have to sell it to pay the bill at a shop 
in the town, “ down beyant,” — a bill for oat- 
meal, tea, bacon, and a few other necessities. Of 
course, potatoes are the staple food ; cabbage is 
the only other vegetable planted. Potatoes are- 
stored in the barn for use in winter, when the 
women spend their days carding wool to be 
sent to Clifden and woven into cloth. Part of 
this they keep for themselves and part they 
sell. The children walk five miles to school, 
and it is three miles to the Catholic church. 
A lonely, poor enough place to spend one’s life 
in ! And yet, the village had had its great day 
when the : King and Queen went up that quarry 
road from Recess. The King’s chair is still 
preserved and one has to pay to see it. 


200 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

‘ ‘ They’re so brown and near the ground 
that you’d hardly know they were houses, would 
you? ” questioned Barbara, looking at the cab- 
ins, their stone walls chinked with peat, their 
roofs of smutched thatch. The huts are con- 
nected by rocky, narrow, crooked lanes, the 
haunts of hens, pigs, an occasional goat, or a 
flock of geese. 

“ I wonder if this isn’t the village described 
by Jane Barlow in her ‘ Irish Idylls ’? ” said 
Mrs. Pitt. ‘ ‘ It answers to her description per- 
fectly, and her village was surely not far from 
here. Have you ever read those tales of the 
Irish peasants, Betty? I think you would like 
them, some of them, at least. They are about 
Ody Rafferty who owned an ass, and generous 
Widdy McGurk, or Stacy Doyne and her un- 
fortunate love affair, or poor Larry who didn’t 
want to seek his fortune in America. Such 
real people! They go right to one’s heart.” 

The quarry is no longer worked and the big 
pieces of green marble remain just as the men 
left them when they went away. The quarry 
had given work to a number of village men, at 
half a crown a day, but it had been shut down 
for a long time. Their guide seemed to regret 
this in a dull sort of way; but these peasants 
accept things as they are, expecting little. 

From the hotel porch there was a lovely view 
of distant blue lough and sharp mountain peaks, 



And yet, the village had its great day when the King and Queen went up that Quarry road 

Page 199. 

















IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


201 


which at sunset were flooded with a wonderful 
golden haze. In the foreground were green 
lawns and many wild flowers and flowering 
shrubs ; in the wood, behind the hotel, a night- 
ingale sang. It was so beautiful that they re- 
luctantly left it for the somewhat cheerless 
dining-room. The early morning was equally 
fair at Recess, and they were sorry to mount 
the waiting jaunting-cars for their trip across 
country to Leenane, on Killery Bay. 

There was much laughter over the two horses, 
one being a perfect skeleton of a beast that had 
to be constantly touched with the whip, the 
other a sturdy nag new to this part of the 
country, hence, as they say in Connemara, a 
‘ ‘ thrifle mountamy. ’ ’ They first tried hitching 
the fast horse to the first car, but soon found 
that the other jaunting-car and its passengers 
fell too far behind. Then it was decided to let 
the slow horse take the lead, restraining the 
energies of the “ mountamy ” beast with no 
small difficulty. 

Their way led through a rugged region of 
bogs, gloomy lakes, and rocky, sharp-peaked 
mountains. Journeying slowly down a long, 
desolate valley, they found themselves among 
“ The Twelve Pins.” These mountain peaks 
are very jagged and the lower slopes look as 
if the peculiar, thin blue smoke of the peat had 
been blown over them. Higher up are long 


202 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

rows of ridges, where potatoes have been 
planted in the unfriendly soil. 

After they had passed Kylemore Lake, with 
its wild, wooded shores and its white castle 
belonging to the Duke of Manchester, Mrs. Pitt 
questioned one of the drivers about the fairies. 
Did he believe in them? she asked. The man 
would not confess that he had any faith in 
them himself, but he knew many who had. Like 
most Irish peasants, when questioned by for- 
eigners, he insisted that the fairies “ do be all 
dead now.” Unless the Irish feel very friendly 
towards the stranger and are assured of his 
sympathy, no stories of the ‘ ‘ good people ’ ’ 
will be forthcoming, as it is deemed unlucky 
to talk of them. Mr. Yeats quotes a man who 
said, “ They always mind their own affairs 
and I always mind mine.” But it is even as 
the same author has said: “ Though peasants 
profess to doubt many supernatural things and 
will insist that they have no belief in fairies, 
the underlying idea of their reality is never- 
theless there, for the fairies ‘ £tand to rea- 
son.’ ” That their driver shared this faith was 
proved by a story he told them. 

‘ 4 It’s meself and a gossoon were afther thrav- 
elin’ this very same road at wan or two o’clock 
in the morning. Sure I’ve thraveled it airly 
and late, I have that. Faith, I’ve never seen 
one o ’ the ‘ good people ’ or any onnatural thing 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


203 


except this wan time, but thin we did get a 
frightening np, like. Now put an ear on your- 
self, for I’m afther telling yez a great story. 
It was chill like, and we were cornin’ along smart 
whin Jim he seen somethin’ white near the road 
ahead, and just thin the horse I had, she gives 
a jump past, for she seen it, too. It’s meself 
was for goin’ back to see what it was, not be- 
lievin’ in ‘ good people,’ ye under sthand. But 
Jim he wouldn’t be left to hould the horse, so 
we turned and druv back, the both on us. There 
in the middle of the road stood a white cow, 
and sure she did be the wan onnatural critter 
I ever seen.” The man laughed uproariously 
as he leaned over to flick a fly from the horse’s 
back. 

But, although he pretended to ridicule the 
fairies, he told tales of one of the most inter- 
esting of their number, the leprehaun, or fairy 
cobbler. This fairy is always dressed in a lit- 
tle green coat and a scarlet cap, and on his 
tiny shoes are elegant buckles. If you are lucky 
enough to see him at all, he will be sitting under 
some bush by the roadside or in a field, either 
making or mending a shoe. He usually has 
with him a wonderful purse full of fairy money, 
and the thing to do is to snatch this or to make 
the fairy tell you the whereabouts of the “ crock 
of gold but, unless you are very, very care- 
ful he will divert your attention and then es- 


204 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

cape. The leprehaun is both sly and clever, 
and so far no man has ever stolen his treasure. 

This talk reminded Mrs. Pitt of a song about 
the leprehaun: 

“ ‘ In a shady nook, one moonlight night, 

A leprehaun I spied; 

With scarlet cap and coat of green, 

A cruiskeen by his side. 

’Twas tick, tack, tick, his hammer went, 

Upon a weeny shoe; 

And I laughed to think of his purse of gold, — 
But the fairy was laughing too! 

“‘With tiptoe step and beating heart, 

Quite softly I drew nigh: 

There was mischief in his merry face, 

A twinkle in his eye. 

He hammered, and sang with tiny voice, 

And drank his mountain dew; 

And I laughed to think he was caught at last; 
But the fairy was laughing too! 

“‘As quick as thought I seized the elf. 

“ Your fairy purse ! ” I cried. 

“ The purse ! ” he said — “ ’tis in her hand — 

That lady at your side.” 

I turned to look; the elf was off, 

Then what was I to do? 

Oh, I laughed to think what a fool I’d been; 

And the fairy was laughing too ! 9 99 

“ I’m going to watch for him all the time,” 
Betty declared. “ I’d love to see him, but I 
don’t believe I’d try to steal his purse.” 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


20 5 

“ Just give me a chance. I bet I could do 
it! ” put in John. 

At that moment they saw beautiful Killery 
Bay below them, and began to descend the steep 
road to Leenane. 

At the sportsmen’s inn, near the bay, they 
had a delicious luncheon of trout which had 
been caught that morning. Later they followed 
the bend of the bay, past a camp where a game 
was being played, with home-made mallets and 
tin-cans for balls, — Barbara thought it was in- 
tended to be croquet. Coming to a steep road 
leading back into the country, they followed 
it up to the Leenane National School. 

“ Shall we go in and visit the school, Betty f 
You and John and II No, Barbara, you and 
Philip walk on up the hill; it would frighten 
them if we all went in, and you will have other 
chances of seeing an Irish school. We’ll over- 
take you in a few minutes.” 

It is probably not often that any one visits 
this school, unless it be the much-feared in- 
spector, and the schoolmaster was very prompt 
in answering their knock. He gave the visitors 
permission to watch the proceedings, but he 
had no chairs to offer. While he endeavored 
to induce the awe-struck, staring children to 
take up the ordinary routine, Mrs. Pitt, John, 
and Betty looked about them. 

It was not a large room ; in the corner was a 


20 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

medium-sized grate, and the whitewashed walls 
were adorned with three large maps, one of 
Europe, one of Palestine, and one of the Brit- 
ish Isles. There were also the “ General Les- 
son/’ a white placard with five or six printed 
paragraphs regarding good conduct, and several 
pasteboard advertisements of favorite brands 
of tobacco, of biscuits, or of tea. The master ’s 
desk was at one end of the room, the boys’ 
forms, or benches, facing him; the girls sat 
with their backs turned to the boys, in front 
of a young woman who teaches sewing and knit- 
ting. A few children sat along the wall, near 
a door leading to a smaller room where cook- 
ing is done. 

The visitors ’ attention was called to two small 
girls who were standing before the master, re- 
citing Longfellow’s “ Village Blacksmith.” 
Mrs. Pitt suspected that this was done as a com- 
pliment to John and Betty, but the children 
knew the poem very well. Three boys were 
reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and those in the 
second class were laboring over a strange selec- 
tion, entitled “ The Beds and Sleep of Ani- 
mals.” The master, after permitting a pupil to 
read a paragraph or two, would interrupt him to 
ask, “ Now, what do you think is meant by that, 
at all? ” He was patient and painstaking, but 
sometimes his explanations were as odd as the 
children’s. He was fond of quoting Latin which 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


207 


no one understood. His discipline seemed to 
be excellent, though the children may have been 
merely frightened into silence. 

When a recitation was over, there was a 
strange thud of bare feet as the pupils went 
back to their seats ; only one boy in school wore 
shoes and stockings. He was Patrick Joyce, 
who was very clever and answered most of the 
questions. Tall Patrick shared the honors with 
a smaller boy who had very red hair and big, 
intelligent brown eyes. The children were 
dressed in any clothes available, regardless of 
their original intention for male or female at- 
tire. One boy, who wore unspeakably ragged 
clothes, had a strange, blank expression in his 
eyes, and, although he came forward and stood 
with the others, he took no part in the reading 
and was asked no questions. 

To the master’s query, “ Is it any interest 
you’d be feeling to see the copybooks? ” Mrs. 
Pitt replied that it would give them great pleas- 
ure. The master thereupon called out sharply: 
‘ ‘ First boy, there! Fetch thim copybooks.” 

These were fairly neat, some containing sums 
in fractions #nd others essays or compositions, 
one being a description of the battle of Clon- 
tarf, and another a recital of the daily doings 
of the writer, — going to mass of a Sunday and 
afterward attending a dance at Leenane. 

The master followed his guests to the door, 


208 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

and stood there a few moments answering ques- 
tions. School is out at three-thirty, he told 
them; the children usually arrive about nine- 
thirty in the morning, although they are not 
marked late if they reach the schoolhouse be- 
fore ten-thirty. Many of them have long dis- 
tances to come, sometimes five or six miles. 
They are obliged to attend school between the 
ages of six and fourteen, but they may enter 
when they are three. Their only vacation is 
six weeks, “ about August,” probably during 
harvest time. The children must buy their own 
books, and if they are too poor they have to look 
over a neighbor ’s shoulder. 

“ There’s Phil on ahead! ” cried John, when 
the school door had closed, and away he ran up 
the hill. Betty and Mrs. Pitt followed, soon 
overtaken by the scholars who had just been 
dismissed. Most of them carried quaint school- 
bags which they keep slung over their shoul- 
ders even in school, taking out books as needed. 
Several boys passed Mrs. Pitt and Betty, Pat- 
rick Joyce among them, but the girls followed 
closely behind them, either from curiosity or 
because they had not the courage to pass. 

“ Let’s follow one of them home,” suggested 
Betty. 4 4 We could ask for a drink of water, 
and then we could see where they live. ’ ’ 

So when Annie Rose (aged about eight years) 
and little Lottie (four or five) letdown some bars 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


209 


and started up a grassy lane, leading to a farm- 
house, Mrs. Pitt and Betty followed them. The 
children were frightened and ran on ahead. 
When the farmhouse came in sight, they were 
standing in the doorway holding fast to the 
skirts of a motherly person whose black shawl 
framed her honest face. 

“ Good-afternoon,’ ’ said Mrs. Pitt pleasantly. 
“ I wonder if you have two glasses of milk for 
some thirsty people ? ’ 9 

“ Faith an’ I have, ma’am ! Come in and set 
yez down till I fetch it.” 

This was plainly the home of progressive, 
thrifty people. There were several barns and 
sheds, and the house had two rooms, entered 
from a tiny hall. Mrs. Joyce ushered them 
into the room at the right, which had a dining- 
table, several good chairs, and some flowers 
at the casement windows. On the walls were 
family portraits, a few old Biblical prints, and 
a shelf holding two good luster pitchers and 
some other china. 

Mrs. Joyce soon returned with the milk, 
which she poured for her visitors. 

“ It’s good milk,” Betty remarked shyly. 
“ Have you a cow? ” 

“We have, miss, plaze God. It’s not every- 
one in Ireland has such good fortune, either. 
But himself has always been a hard-working 
man, not afther taking the dhrink too often, so 


210 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

we’ve fairly prospered, we have. There’s him- 
self now, out in the potato rows. We’ve some 
good land, and there’s me own flower garden, 
beyond the boreen; the childer made it. I’ve 
fourteen childer, ma’am, all living, glory be, — 
two out in ‘ the States,’ and me ouldest daugh- 
ter in London, nursing. Sure I’ve Heaven to 
praise for me blessings. Is it the kitchen ye’ll 
be wishin’ to see, miss! Ye can, miss! This 
way. ’ ’ 

The kitchen, the real living apartment, had 
a dirt floor on which the hens clucked; near 
the huge fireplace, where the peat smoldered, 
several children and a dog were huddled. The 
chimney was whitewashed as far up as one 
could reach; above that the great beams of 
the ceiling were black from the smoke. There 
were saddles hanging on pegs, a dresser full of 
china, and four sturdy chairs. 

“ Why! there’s Patrick Joyce! ” Betty ex- 
claimed. ‘ 4 Is he your son! We heard him read 
at school.” 

It was late afternoon when they bade good- 
by to Mrs. Joyce, joined Barbara and the boys 
at the end of the boreen, and went down the 
hill again towards Leenane. The mountains 
looked purple now and the golden haze, which 
they were learning to love, was again creep- 
ing over the fields and valleys. 

Presently they saw a woman, with two great 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


21 I 


bags of peat, come down the mountain side. 
She left one bag by the road and struggled 
along, the other on her back. She made a pic- 
turesque figure in her scarlet petticoat and 
shawled head, as she bent under her burden. 
Soon a tall, thin boy followed her, bounding 
over the hummocks with the second peat bag 
on his back. His clothing was a strange mix- 
ture — a scant, short, black skirt, a gingham 
apron, and a blue jacket with brass buttons. 
He, too, was doubled over by the weight of his 
load, his eerie figure silhouetted against the sky. 
It was the half-witted boy they had seen at the 
school. 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


IN THE “ GENTLE COUNTRY,” WITH “ THE GOOD 
PEOPLE ” 

A clergyman and his wife from London and 
a Scotch eonple from Manchester sat at the 
same table with Mrs. Pitt and her party while 
they were at Leenane. They were all anglers, 
as their conversation made plain enough. 

“ Are you fishing this morning? ” from the 
clergyman. 

“ Oh, no, there’s no wind,” replied the 
Scotchman, conscious of superior knowledge. 

“ Ah! ” observed the Rev. Mr. H., in the 
tone of one who makes note of information. 

“ There’ll perhaps be some sketching or 
something of that sort,” the Scotchman sug- 
gested. 

It is easy to tell the adept at fishing. The 
rector and his wife, ambling through Ireland in 
mild enjoyment of their annual holiday, desired 
to seem keen on fishing, but were obviously ama- 
teurs. The Scotch couple had settled down in 
a favorite spot, with an eye on the weather, 
perfectly united in their devotion to angling. 

The valley of the ErifiP, through which Mrs. 

212 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


213 


Pitt and the others drove on their way to West- 
port, is famous for its salmon fishing. Occa- 
sionally they saw two or three men, flinging 
their lines while knee-deep in the little stream. 
Of course, John wanted to try his luck. 

“ I wish I could say yes,” said Mrs. Pitt, 
“ but we really haven’t the time, and there is 
a big fee. How would you like paying £1 a 
day for fishing? There are keepers here and 
on the Duke of Manchester’s property, who 
watch the river to make sure that nobody fishes 
who hasn’t paid. They patrol certain beats on 
foot, and I believe there is also an overseer 
who rides on horseback along the stream. I’m 
afraid you would hardly be able to escape 
detection. ’ ’ 

“ If I had half a chance, I’d show you! ” 
protested John. “ These fellows can’t be 
everywhere; I could dodge ’em. I’d duck be- 
hind a rock if one came along. ’ ’ 

But Mrs. Pitt was firm, and they drove on 
through the lonely valley, the broad peat bogs 
bordering the road. The few huts which they 
passed had networks of rope laid over the 
thatched roofs, held down by rows of stones at 
the eaves. 

“ The haystacks are fixed like that, too,” re- 
marked Barbara. “ I suppose it’s shockingly 
windy here in winter.” 

Now and then they overtook a peasant driv- 


214 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

ing his donkey loaded with heavy panniers of 
peat, which sells at Westport for about sixpence 
the “ kish,” or basketful; several times ragged 
children scampered out from huts at the ap- 
proach of the jaunting-cars, and ran along be- 
side the strangers, saying nothing but holding 
out appealing hands. Much later they came 
in sight of Clew Bay with its islands, and no- 
ticed, on their left, the high pointed top of 
Croagh Patrick. 

“ Isn’t that the mountain where St. Patrick 
killed the snakes! ” asked Betty eagerly. 

“ Yes, the tradition is that he collected all 
the serpents in Ireland, carried them to the top 
of Croagh Patrick, and then drove them into 
the sea. There’s even a certain hollow in the 
mountain side where the snakes tried to hide 
to escape destruction. It was here that the 
saint began his mission to Ireland, but, when 
he saw how bleak and desolate Connemara 
looked from the top of the mountain, he de- 
cided not to enter it. St. Patrick, being tired 
and thirsty from his climb up Croagh Patrick, 
drew water from a holy well which suddenly 
sprang forth, only to disappear after he had 
refreshed himself. Its existence was unknown 
until long afterwards, when a good priest 
chanced to lift a stone marked with a cross and 
thus it was rediscovered. There are two holy 
trout in the well. One day a soldier caught one 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


215 


of them and took it home, intending to eat it; 
but no sooner had he put it on the gridiron than 
it vanished. When he went to the well again, 
he found the trout there as usual, but with the 
distinct mark of a hot iron bar on its side.” 

A chapel stands on the summit of Croagh 
Patrick, and every year, on the last Sunday in 
July, there is a great pilgrimage up the moun- 
tain, this being one of Ireland’s most sacred 
shrines. Irish people tell the story of how, dur- 
ing the six months that the chapel was being 
built, not a drop of rain fell. This proved a 
boon to the workmen, who had to carry all build- 
ing materials from Westport. 

This chief town of County Mayo is of the 
familiar Irish type except for “ the Mall,” a 
pretty broad street lined with trees, having a 
tiny brook running down the center. After 
lunching at a decayed hotel in this picturesque 
street, they took the afternoon train to Sligo. 

“ Sort of a slimy name, isn’t it! ” ventured 
John. “ I bet we won’t like it, and there’ll be 
no train to get away in.” 

It seemed strange to come into a large town 
again, after the wilds of Connemara. John 
was quite right. They did not like Sligo and 
straightway desired to leave its noisy, dirty 
Saturday afternoon streets, its beautiful but 
depressing old abbey, half sunk into the peaty 
soil, and its dark hotel. Mrs. Pitt tried to hire 


2 1 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

a motor-car for the following day, meaning 
to rnn down to Carrick-on-Shannon, where she 
had friends; hut every Irishman who kept a 
garage (there were three) insisted that no 
motor-car ever left his premises on Sunday. 
Inquiries at the station resulted in the cheer- 
less news that there was no Sunday train in 
any direction, neither would there be another 
that evening. For a time it looked as if they 
must spend the week-end at Sligo. 

“ 0 dear, I never wanted to get away from 
any place so much in all my life! ” declared 
Betty, at dinner. “ Couldn’t we drive some- 
where? ” 

Here was one thing they could do, Mrs. Pitt 
decided; they could drive to Bundoran. They 
all preferred traveling in the vicinity of twenty 
miles on an open jaunting-car, through the heat 
of a June day, to staying in Sligo; and they 
were the more content to be on the road since 
it led through “ gentle ” country, meaning 
country in high favor with the “ good people.” 

“ There’s Ben Bulben,” said Mrs. Pitt, point- 
ing to a hill before them as they began to climb 
a steep road. “ On the side of that mountain 
there is 4 a small white square in the limestone. 
No mortal will ever touch it, no sheep or goat 
has pulled grass near it, for it is the door of 
fairy-land! ’ Now, you know why there are 
so many fairies about here, and why mysteri- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


217 


ous things happen. Mr. Yeats tells us all about 
it and he knows, of course. In the middle of 
the night the door swings open and the fairies 
pour out for their expeditions. Many people 
have been kidnaped, most often babies or 
brides; sometimes they are allowed to come 
back for a short visit after seven years with 
the fairies, sometimes they are never seen 
again. One woman, when she came back from 
fairy-land, had no toes left, having danced them 
all off !” 

“ Oh, tell us more, please! ” cried Betty, as 
Mrs. Pitt, complaining of the heat, paused to 
take off her coat. “ I just love to hear about 
the ‘ good people ’ ! I hope you know millions 
of stories ! ’ y 

“ Well,” laughed Mrs. Pitt, “ I used to be 
able to quote a good bit from Mr. Yeats, and if 
I forget, I have only to turn to his 4 Celtic Twi- 
light.’ Here it is in my handbag, you see, for 
I was anticipating a demand for fairy lore to- 
day. First of all, I want to explain what a dif- 
ference there is between Scotch and Irish fai- 
ries. Mr. Yeats says [and here the book was 
opened] : ‘ For their gay and graceful doings 
you must go to Ireland ; for their deeds of ter- 
ror to Scotland. Our Irish fairy terrors have 
about them something of make-believe. When 
a peasant strays into an enchanted hut, and is 
made to turn a corpse all night on a spit before 


218 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

the fire, we do not feel anxious; we know he 
will wake in the midst of a green field, the dew 
on his old coat. In Scotland it is altogether dif- 
ferent. You (the Scotch) have soured the natu- 
rally excellent disposition of ghosts and gob- 
lins. . . . You — you will make no terms with 
the spirits of fire and earth and air and water. 
You have made the Darkness your enemy. We 
— we exchange civilities with the world beyond. ’ 
Even in various parts of Ireland, spirits have 
different characteristics, it seems. In the east 
they are usually matter-of-fact and gloomy, re- 
turning to avenge a wrong, announce a death, 
or sometimes to pay a bill; in the west spirits 
are weird and hilarious, using strange dis- 
guises. A certain old man returned in the form 
of a rabbit to rob his own garden. In some 
villages these spirits are believed to lurk at 
every turning. A man once cried out: ‘ If I 
pass by the hill of Dunboy, old Captain Burney 
may look out on me. If I go round by the wa- 
ter, and up by the steps, there is the headless 
one and another on the quays, and a new one 
under the old churchyard wall. If I go right 
round the other way, Mrs. Stewart is appearing 
at Hillside Gate and the devil himself is in the 
Hospital Lane.’ ” 

“ They seem to be all mixed up together, 
don’t they, Mother, — ghosts, spirits, leprehauns, 
fairies, and all the rest? ” 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


219 

“ Oh, I adore them all! ” Betty cried, impa- 
tient for Mrs. Pitt to go on. 

“ Rosses and Drumclitf are both very i gen- 
tle ’ places,” Mrs. Pitt continued. “ They are 
near here; we shall pass through Drumclitf 
presently, with its Celtic cross and its battered 
round tower. Both these places are overhung 
by Ben Bulben and Knocknarea Mountains, 
Ben Bulben being famous for its hawks as well 
as for its door into fairyland. There’s an old 
rhyme, too: 

11 1 But for Benbulben and Knocknarea, 

Many a poor sailor’d be cast away/ 

“ On Knocknarea is a wondrous White Lady 
who wanders under the ‘ broad cloud night- 
cap. ’ Perhaps she is Queen Maive herself. But 
no matter who she is, every one must believe 
in her, for she was seen not long ago. It was 
a herdsboy against whom her skirts brushed, 
and soon after ‘ he fell down and was dead three 
days.’ About five miles south of Sligo is a 
gloomy lake called the Heart Lake, because 
of its form. Snipe, heron, and wild duck flock 
there, but there are stranger things ; out of this 
lake may come the same fairy troop which 
sometimes pushes away the great white stone 
on the slope of Ben Bulben. Some men were 
once trying to drain the lake, when suddenly 


220 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

one of them fancied he saw his cottage on fire. 
Looking around, startled, each man plainly saw 
his own home burning. All hurried away, only 
to find everything well with their families, so 
they knew it had been only ‘ faery glammor.’ 
But they did not go on with the draining of 
the lake.” 

“ H’m! ” said J ohn. “ P ’r ’aps that old 
O’Donoghue has a castle down there.” 

“ Don’t interrupt, John,” pleaded his sister. 
“ You know O’Donoghue lives at Killarney.” 

“ The fairies spirited Ossian away to ‘ Tir- 
nan-og, ’ you remember, and kept him there three 
hundred years. To the fairies there is no such 
thing as time. They never grow old because 
their joy is endless. Two of them once came 
to a peasant’s hut and danced for days, on 
and on in an upper room. The poor owner, 
not daring to live in the house meantime, finally 
went up and told them that the priest was com- 
ing. Usually unearthly creatures are very 
much frightened when a priest is mentioned; 
but these fairies calmly went back to their own 
country, where they could dance until ‘ God 
shall burn up the world with a kiss.’ Occa- 
sionally a person is born with ‘ faery life,’ 
which is endless, but the gift isn’t always de- 
sirable. There is a story of a woman who 
traveled all over the country looking for a 
lake deep enough to drown her ‘ faery life ’ in. ” 



Drumcliff, with its Celtic cross. — Page 219. 





IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


221 


“ What is ‘ Tir-nan-og ’? ” Philip asked. 

“It's * the Land of the Ever-Youthful, ’ 
where the fairies dwell ; where the huts are not 
so unlike earthly ones, except that the thatch 
never leaks nor do the whitewashed walls ever 
grow dingy.* ’ 

Drumclitf is a great place for omens, and 
the one which the people are most happy to see 
is the ancient boat in which St. Columba comes 
floating in from the sea, the sign of abundant 
harvest. 

“ Mother, what are sheogues? ” inquired 
Barbara. 

‘ ‘ Fairies, dear ; just another name for them. * * 

“ Mrs. Pitt, why do fairies like raths! Raths 
were really forts, weren’t they*? 99 

“ Yes, prehistoric forts, Betty. I think it 
would be hard to explain why the 1 good peo- 
ple * chose them as their homes. No one knows 
anything more than the fact that there are many 
fairy raths. The famous Irish harper, Carolan, 
went to sleep on a fairy rath and that put the 
marvelous fairy music into his head.” 

“ What are banshees ! 99 John demanded. 

“ Well, banshees are the least agreeable of 

the fairy relatives. They but I can’t stop 

to tell you about them now. Driver, we’ll stop 
for luncheon. Yes, over there in the shade. 
Come and help me unpack the sandwiches, chil- 
dren. Later I’ll tell you a banshee story and 


222 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

also read yon a splendid one about 4 Donegal’s 
Doubter,’ from Mr. Yeats. Don’t drop those 
bottles of ginger beer, John. Take care! ” 

Luncheon being over, they lingered in the 
shade to discuss banshees with Mrs. Pitt. 

“ What do they look like? ” asked Betty. 
“ They’re women, aren’t they? ” 

“ Yes, usually old women, with loose white 
draperies and streaming gray hair. They wave 
their arms about, dog one’s footsteps, and often 
utter most distressing cries. They are said to 
appear before a death ; but it is not every fam- 
ily which can have a banshee, only those of great 
antiquity and fame. It’s rather a doubtful 
privilege, I should think, — the possession of a 
banshee.” 

“ What do the old lady banshees do? ” in- 
quired John. 

4 4 Most uncanny, unpleasant things ! In tales 
where people have been summoned to the house 
of a relative who is ill, the banshee appears be- 
fore them on the road, screeching or ‘ keening, ’ 
pointing towards the house. The sick person is 
sure to die soon after this. There are many 
records of banshees warning women of the 
deaths of their husbands at sea. In Kerry, a 
number of people once met for some sort of 
merry-making. When ‘ the cry ’ was heard, 
several rich merchants began to fear for their 
lives ; but they need not have been alarmed, for 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


223 


banshees never attend ‘ new people.' One of 
the 0 ’Sullivans, then a day laborer but once 
a prince, had fallen ill. When asked if he were 
dead, a neighbor of his replied : 4 No, sir, he is 
not dead; but he soon will be. We heard the 
voice last night.' Some of the old superstitious 
people still talk of banshees. I confess that I 
have tried to encourage peasants to discuss 
them with me, and other folk tales of weird 
happenings or doings of the ‘ good people ' ; but 
it is useless. These things have largely been 
forgotten even by the aged people, driven out 
of mind by the National Schools, Father Ma- 
thew, and modern newspapers. Even if one is 
lucky enough to speak the Gaelic tongue, it is 
next to impossible to find a trace of the old 
belief in the fairies. Mr. Yeats says that the 
folk tales are ‘ like a mist on the coming of 
night that is scattered away by the light breath 
of wind '; but he thinks fairy and ghost tales 
will be ‘ always going and never gone,’ for 
they have the ‘ four winds of desire : Love, For- 
tune, Adventure, Wonder.' 

“ Now I'll r^ad you what happened to ‘ Done- 
gal's Doubter,' " said Mrs. Pitt, taking up her 
book once more ; “ then we must start on. Here 
it is, on page 141, ‘ The Man and His Boots.' 

11 ‘ There was a doubter in Donegal, and he 
would not hear of ghosts or sheogues, and there 


224 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


was a house in Donegal that had been haunted 
as long as man could remember, and this is 
the story of how the house got the better of the 
man. The man came into the house and lighted 
a fire in the room under the haunted one, and 
took off his boots and set them on the hearth, 
and stretched out his feet and warmed himself. 
For a time he prospered in his unbelief; but 
a little while after the night had fallen, and 
everything had got very dark, one of his boots 
began to move. It got up off the floor and gave 
a kind of slow jump towards the door, and 
then the other boot did the same, and after 
that the first boot jumped again. And there- 
upon it struck the man that an invisible being 
had got into his boots, and was now going away 
in them. When the boots reached the door they 
went upstairs slowly, and then the man heard 
them go tramp, tramp round the haunted room 
over his head. A few minutes passed, and he 
could hear them again upon the stairs, and after 
that in the passage outside, and then one of 
them came in at the door, and the other gave 
a jump past it and came in, too. They jumped 
along towards him, and then one got up and 
hit him, and afterwards the other hit him, and 
so on, until they drove him out of the room, 
and finally out of the house. In this way he 
was kicked out by his own boots, and Donegal 
was avenged upon its doubter. It is not re- 
corded whether the invisible being was a ghost 
or one of the Sidhe, but the fantastic nature 
of the vengeance is like the work of the Sidhe 
who live in the heart of fantasy . 7 99 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


TRAVELING TOWARDS THE NORTH 

‘ ‘ I like it, ” said Betty, standing on the lawn 
in front of the Bundoran hotel and looking 
across the cliffs to the water. “I’m crazy 
about those sand dunes where the pale green 
grass grows! Oh, John, let me go with yon 
when you play golf! Doesn’t it look nice and 
cool out there on the rocks in the wind! I 
heard a man say there are big caves.” 

The boys lost no time in getting out on the 
links while the others wandered here and there, 
enjoying the sea air and the fine views. It was 
surprising how soon they settled down to draw- 
ing-rooms, electric lights, and elaborate table 
d’hote, after the primitive accommodations 
they had had in Connemara. 

“It’s rather different from that night at Lee- 
nane when we had bacon and eggs, isn’t it? ” 
laughed Barbara, a waiter at her elbow with 
sweetbreads. 

Their table, too, was placed where they could 
see the Donegal Mountains across the bay; in 
the evening light they were alluringly blue and 
hazy. 


225 


226 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

“ Donegal! ” said Mrs. Pitt. “ How I wish 
we had time to explore it ! There ’s where we 
might really find primitive conditions. Many 
people still speak Gaelic there, and Seumas 
MacManus has assured us that they still gather 
around the peat fires on winter evenings to hear 
stories of fairies and banshees and giants. Not 
many years ago, most of the five hundred peo- 
ple living on bleak Tory Island had never vis- 
ited the mainland. The few traveled ones car- 
ried back, as great curiosities, leaves and 
branches pulled from trees. Achill Island is 
still primitive. There are tales there of seals 
possessing human souls, and of a mermaid. 
Formerly there was only one hat on the island. 
It was kept on a pole, near the sound, and when- 
ever a man was going to cross to the mainland 
he climbed the pole and took down the hat. 
On returning, he replaced it for the use of the 
next traveler. 

‘ ‘ Donegal is also famed as the birthplace of 
St. Columba. His father was the great-grand- 
son of an old king, Niall-of-the-Nine-Hostages, 
from whom are descended the O’Neills. Niall 
was the most warlike of all the pagan kings, 
and when he died, in 405, his eight sons had 
conquered much territory and were very power- 
ful. All but two of the Ard-ri’s, between the 
time of Niall-of-the-Nine-Hostages down to 
Brian Boru, were chosen from this family. So 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


227 


it is clear that St. Columba might have had high 
station and honors accorded him, had he not 
chosen to give them np for the sake of his mis- 
sion. The famous work, 1 Annals of the Four 
Masters/ compiled from the books of older 
writers, was done at a Franciscan monastery in 
Donegal.’ ’ 

Two mornings later they left their luxurious 
quarters at Bundoran to drive through Bally- 
shannon, famous for its salmon leap, and on 
to the little town of Belleek, four miles beyond. 

Not far from Bundoran they passed a camp 
of soldiers, raw recruits who were being drilled 
by young officers. One squad was practising 
leaping over a wooden “ horse ” and another 
was handling guns, apparently aiming them at 
the passers-by. 

“ Look at those kids! ” burst out John in- 
dignantly. “ What do they think they’re doing, 
anyhow — pointing their guns at us like that? 
D’you think they ever saw a gun before? ” 

The road was beautiful and their driver pleas- 
antly talkative, though his accent made it diffi- 
cult to follow him. Mrs. Pitt had been ques- 
tioning him about the fairies. Translating his 
remarks into clearer English, they ran some- 
thing like this : 

“ The ‘ good people,’ is it? Ah, it’s bad luck 
to be always blamin’ ’em, yer ladyship. I never 
seen any 0’ thim meself, but there’s thim near 


228 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

here as has, and has heerd the banshees; but 
I don’t think there’s been any for about a hun- 
dred years. There used to be fairies in the 
ould days. They used to carry people out o’ 
their houses at night, and they would be afther 
the animals, too, poor craythers! I know a 
man that had his horses taken out of the stables 
on him. One night they took a man and set 
him on a horse and drove him out into the night 
entirely. When he was found, he was three 
miles from home and didn’t know where he’d 
been at all. Up in thim hills yonder, they do be 
saying there were two great animals in a deep 
lake. A colleen — McLoughlin was the name of 
her — started out one day with a dagger to kill 
them, but she never came back, and so her fa- 
ther and another man wint off to the hills to 
find her. When they got there one of the 
dragons come up out of the deep lake, an’ they 
chased it, and just as it was going to cross the 
threshold and go into the house itself, they cut 
off the head. And what do yez think, but it was 
the colleen herself! Over where she is buried, 
in the mountains, it says : 

“ ‘ Tail like a fish, head like a man, and ’ 

Sure I’m afther forgetting the rest. It hap- 
pened a hundred and eighty-eight years ago.” 

Near Ballyshannon they passed a field, in 
which was an inclosure where trees and bushes 
grow undisturbed. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


229 


“ Is that a rath? ” Barbara inquired. 

Of course the jarvey had a story about this, 
too. An old bachelor who owned the estate or- 
dered his steward to cut down the trees and 
throw the land into one field. The steward, a 
Scotchman, replied: 

“ Twelve wee men guard that place and I 
canna touch it. Weel ye ken I’ll do onything 
else ye order, but not that. ’ 9 

The owner, greatly angered at this, took an 
ax and himself went out to cut down a tree. 
No sooner had he touched it, however, than he 
fell down as if he were dead. A second and 
a third time he made the attempt, always with 
the same result. Then he lay helpless, and doc- 
tors were summoned from all the near-by towns. 
66 Much money, many doctors,” but they could 
do nothing, and the man lay barely alive for 
three weeks. One morning some one found a 
mysterious note placed at the foot of his bed. 
This, when opened, was found to contain di- 
rections for building a wall around the strange 
inclosure in the field. Every man in the neigh- 
borhood helped in the work. As the last stone 
was put in place, the master recovered. He 
lived seven years afterwards, and died on the 
anniversary of his unhappy attempt to cut down 
the trees. 

Turning in his seat, the jarvey concluded, 
with all seriousness: “ The estate thin belonged 


230 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

to a doctor, milady, a doctor believin’ in 
nayther Hivin nor Hell. Just where ye see that 
tree in bloom,” pointing with his whip to a 
white hawthorn within the inclosure, “ he was 
afther thryin’ to cut down a tree. But whin 
he had sthruck at it, he was no betther nor a 
goose with a broken wing. Afther that he let 
it alone, and other folk, they’ve let it alone, 
too. It’s no place to go diggin’ at all. Sure I 
meself helped to build the wall, forty-five year 
ago.” 

Still another thrilling tale was among that 
jarvey’s store. He had once been hero of a 
horse race. Pointing out a route over the fields, 
where farmers used to race their horses, he 
told his story. 

“ Two ladies from Dublin sint up for their 
horse, milady, and they showed me how to hould 
him back first time over the course so as to 
boggle the bookies, and whin to let him go. 
They stood up wid a red parasol, and I knew by 
the way they waved it what I was to do. Odds 
were twinty to one against my horse, and 
aftherwards five hundred to one, but he came 
in as far ahead as we are from that house — 
one hundred yards ahead, milady ! The bookies 
were crazy ! The gossoons they put me on their 
shoulders and carried me ; the ladies won a lot 
of money and they gave me £35. I’m remem- 
bered by that race to this day! But it was 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


231 

thirty-five years ago, and I wasn't heavy thin 
and I had no gray hair ! 9 9 

Close by a stream, in a hollow, stands the 
Belleek Pottery factory. It was interesting to 
go through the rooms and see the various proc- 
esses: first, how the material is made from a 
fine-grained, white stone brought from Corn- 
wall; then mixed with water in a vat where it 
is ground for six days, coming out the con- 
sistency of thick cream of a soft gray color. 
There are two firings in immense ovens, one 
lasting forty-eight hours and the other twenty. 
After the decorations are colored by hand, 
there is a final burning for ten hours. Girls 
and men are employed in making and apply- 
ing the decorations of roses, shamrocks, and 
other designs. It seems to be a clean and pleas- 
ant kind of work, and the factory is airy and 
sunny. 

“ I must take home two of these shamrock 
cups and saucers! 99 declared Betty, when they 
were in the salesroom. 16 Mother will love 
them as much as I do! 99 But neither Betty 
nor Mrs. Pitt realized how hard it would be 
to travel with such highly-glazed, fragile 
souvenirs. 

Leaving Belleek about noon that day, they 
journeyed in leisurely fashion down to Bun- 
doran Junction, their train drawn by a neat lit- 
tle engine, named “ Daisy.” There a smart 


232 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

green and black engine, rejoicing in the name, 
“ Snowdrop,” picked them np and whirled 
them on to Londonderry, or “ Derry,” as the 
Irish call it. 

“ I’ve seen 6 Lily ’ and ‘ Jupiter,’ too,” re- 
marked Philip, as they giggled over the names 
of Irish engines. “ But ‘ Snowdrop ’ is the 
fastest.” 

Derry is a smoky, busy place, built at the 
foot of hills, with Lough Foyle not far away. 
It has a fine old city wall of unusual thickness, 
and seven of its gates are still standing. The 
largest and most interesting of these, Bishops- 
gate, is shaped a bit like London’s old Temple 
Bar. Bishopsgate has curious insignia carved 
over the doors, and the keystone of the arch 
is a man’s head. 

“ You know his age,” remarked John. “ The 
old fellow’s got the date, 1689, on his fore- 
head! ” 

In the vestibule of St. Columba’s Cathedral 
is a shell which fell near this church during the 
great siege in 1688. It contained the challenge 
to which the Derrymen made the well-known re- 
ply: “ No Surrender! ” 

“ It was one of the most famous sieges in 
Irish or British history,” said Mrs. Pitt, as 
they were lingering in the cathedral yard ; ‘ ‘ it 
lasted one hundred and five days. The Derry- 
men fought with terrible odds against them — 



Bishopsgate has curious insignia carved over the doors, and 
THE KEYSTONE OF THE ARCH IS A MAN’S HEAD. — Page 232. 


























































IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


233 


poor walls, no competent commanders, lack of 
provisions and of ammunition — but they were 
helped and encouraged by the women. They 
never dreamed of surrender, and succeeded in 
holding the town for King William and Protes- 
tantism. Let ’s walk on the walls now. I’ll show 
you one or two of the old guns, and the statue 
to the Reverend George Walker.’ ’ 

Near the point where the heaviest firing was, 
during the siege, there is now a tall column 
topped by a statue of this clergyman, who, 
being chosen one of the governors of the town, 
organized and led the Derrymen. In one hand 
he holds a Bible; his other hand points down 
the bay. 

They had several rides upon the queer little 
trams which horses draw slowly up and down 
Londonderry’s main street. The route is surely 
less than a mile in length. In spite of the ap- 
parent bustle and the soft-coal smoke, the street 
was not sufficiently exciting for these tram rides 
long to interest the young people. The morn- 
ing was very hot, also. It was a great relief 
when Betty discovered something really thrill- 
ing, directly opposite their hotel. 

‘ 4 It’s a 4 long car,’ ” she cried, pointing to 
a strange vehicle painted bright yellow. “ I’ve 
been wanting to see one ever since we came 
to Ireland. See, John ! See the sideways seats, 


234 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

just like a jaunting-car’s seats, only longer! 
Let’s go over nearer! ” 

From the driver, they learned that it was 
really a long car and that it was over a hun- 
dred years old, always having been owned by 
one family. Although it bears evidences of age, 
the car is still strong and makes regular trips 
through certain parts of the city. 

“ Well, I am glad you saw it, Betty, for I 
fancy there aren’t many left in Ireland. Years 
ago, i long cars ’ were the regular and only 
means of traveling through the country. In 
1815, an Italian, named Bianconi (by the way, 
Marconi is related to this family), started the 
first coaching company to run ‘ long cars ’ over 
various regular routes. Every one used them, 
and Bianconi became rich and far-famed. Mr. 
and Mrs. Hall tell us in their book, published 
in 1842, that ‘ persons of the highest respecta- 
bility ’ traveled in these cars ; they then passed 
through one hundred and twenty-eight towns 
in the south, but the service had not been ex- 
tended to the north of Ireland. The cars varied 
in size, carrying from four to sixteen passen- 
gers; the number of horses was from one to 
four; and the fare, over the roughest of the 
roads, was twopence farthing a mile. Passen- 
gers were furnished with ‘ dry and comfortable 
horse-hair cushions and aprons,’ and in wet 
weather Mr. Bianconi never allowed his cars 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


235 


to travel more than two stages without chang- 
ing the cushions. This was surely consider- 
ate ! Mr. and Mrs. Hall go to much trouble to 
convince us that the cars are both comfortable 
and safe ; and to the man who had formerly to 
walk, they were clearly a great saving of time. 
A few years ago we would have found a num- 
ber of these cars in Connemara, hut now they 
have almost disappeared. I sometimes regret 
progress. If we only could command its ad- 
vantages when we chose, how very nice it would 
be to cling to old customs between whiles! ” 

Having an hour before their train left, Betty 
begged to be permitted to go into a shop dis- 
playing the enticing sign, ‘ ‘ Ices. ’ ’ They asked 
a woman what varieties they might have and 
she, smiling pleasantly, answered, “ Vanilla, 
just! ” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” began Betty, “ that’s about the 
only kind I don’t like. I do miss ice-cream and 
ice- water so, when it’s hot like this! ” 

Americans meet with great difficulties in try- 
ing to get ice-water in Ireland. Sometimes, at 
a modern hotel in a large city, pitchers of it 
will promptly appear after an order is given, 
the ice clinking deliciously; at other times it 
will take about fifteen or twenty minutes to ob- 
tain a tiny glass of cracked ice. One warm 
morning a good-sized bowl of it stood ready 
upon their breakfast table ; but it was long be- 


236 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

fore the waiter could he persuaded to bring any 
water to put it in, he first having brought hot 
water, by mistake! 

The coast line from “ Derry ” to Portrush af- 
fords fine views of the ocean and the rugged 
cliffs of this northern shore. Near the rail- 
way station at Portrush, a typical seaside resort 
where the summer cottages were being opened, 
they found the tram waiting to carry them out 
to the Giant’s Causeway. 

“ This is said to have been the first electric 
tram-line in the world,” remarked Mrs. Pitt. 
“ They are extraordinarily little trams, aren’t 
they! ” 

“ This was the first car they ever ran, all 
right,” agreed John. “ I wish they could see 
this in the U. S. A.” 

But his sister retorted: “ This isn’t different 
from real cars, except it ’s shorter and the seats 
are nearer together. And don ’t you remember 
the horse-cars in New York? ” 

They crossed the town and were soon out in 
the country, the open fields to their right and 
great cliffs to their left. Far, far below was 
a beach with white sand, or chalk cliffs, or huge 
rocks of queer shapes, — one a giant profile of 
a man’s head in which all the features were per- 
fect and the dashing foam suggested an old- 
fashioned frilled shirt. On one bold promon- 
tory of black rock was ruined Dunluce Castle, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


237 

which has played a part in Irish history and 
legend. 

“ The most tragic of all its tales,” Mrs. Pitt 
remarked, “ is that of the fall of part of its 
walls in 1639. Eight servants were dashed over 
the precipice to the rocks below. But the tram 
is slowing down now; we must be almost there.” 

Dinner was ready at the “ Royal Hotel,” on 
the top of the cliff, and by the time they had 
finished it had grown so dark that the wonders 
of the Giant’s Causeway could not be explored 
until the following morning. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


THE FAR NORTH AND ITS LEGENDS 

“ Ay, it’s a war-r-m day,” she replied, in 
broad Scotch, ‘ ‘ but that ’s what I want for the 
rheumatics. Ah, ma ’am, it ’s two miles frae this 
well I live, and a sair lang way for sich an ould 
body ! ’ ’ And the bent figure in the black shawl 
huddled closer over the Wishing Well and be- 
gan a low plaintive croon. 

“ Say, I’ll give you two more pennies for 
another drink out of your tin cup,” broke in 
John; “I’m still thirsty, and besides *1 want to 
wish again, — something very special this time. ’ ’ 

Crippled though she was, the woman quickly 
leaned over the deep pool to dip a cup of wa- 
ter for J ohn, and eagerly held out her hand for 
the promised coins. Even with numerous tour- 
ists, the old guardian of the well cannot make 
a large living. 

They made their way over the uneven rocks, 
baking in the June sunlight. By dint of many 
frowns, sharp rebukes, and cold shoulders, they 
had finally rid themselves of the numberless 
guides who lurked near the hotel entrance and 
had followed the party all the way down to the 

238 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


239 

beach, each insisting that Mrs. Pitt hire him 
and be rowed about in his boat. 

u We are not going in any boat,” said Mrs. 
Pitt, in loud, distinct tones, “ and we do not 
need a guide. . The water is very rough, and the 
rocks are far too numerous for my enjoyment. 
We can reach one or two of the caves from the 
land, and we want no guide to bore us with 
technical names of rock formations. We can 
see everything for ourselves. My word! they 
are insolent! Don’t answer them, John! ” 
Down the steep path Mrs. Pitt trudged, skirts 
held high and head thrown back; her walking- 
stick clicked its iron point noisily upon the 
stones. 

At last they were left alone to start off in 
the direction of the Causeway, which some en- 
terprising company has bought and enclosed 
with a wire fence. Near the entrance is a little 
post-card and souvenir shop, in front of which 
sat another old woman, knitting briskly. She 
looked up at the visitors, her weak blue eyes 
blinking at the glare of the sun on the rocks 
and the glimmering water. On her scanty hair 
was a net cap, and, as Mrs. Pitt was about to 
speak to her, she rose and tried on a straw hat 
with a broad brim. The effect was absurd, and 
the woman well knew it. 

“ I’ll not be keepin’ it on a meenit,” she 
laughed. ‘ 4 I never wore one in my life. Even 


240 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

when I was a lass I conldna thole one on my 
head. I wore a sunbonnet, though. The sun’s 
hard on a body’s eyes. I used to pick seaweed 
hereabouts, but it ’most put me eyes oot and I 
had to give it up.” 

They made a few purchases from the woman’s 
stock ; then they paid their sixpences and passed 
in through a wicket. 

4 4 Why do they all speak Scotch? ” said Betty, 
stopping to tie her shoe. 

“ Because many of them are of Scotch de- 
scent. The Scotch settled in this part of Ire- 
land in large numbers years ago, and their in- 
fluence is still seen in the language and cus- 
toms of the people. The MacKinnons, from the 
Isle of Skye, came to Ireland, and a clan of Mac- 
Gregors; when the Graemes of the Debatable 
Land had made themselves too odious to be 
longer endured in Scotland, they migrated to 
Ireland, too. Hence the name of Groomsport, 
near Bangor on the east coast, which was origi- 
nally Graemsport. Scotland is hardly more 
than twenty miles away, across the Irish Sea; 
from Ballycastle, near by, one can see its blue 
hills.” 

The Giant’s Causeway is a long, low pier of 
rock, running out into the sea until the waves 
gradually cover it. At first glance the visitor 
is likely to be much disappointed, as was John. 

“ Say! ” he exclaimed, in derision, “ is this 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


241 


the Giant’s Causeway that we had in geogra- 
phy? Well, give me the rocks at Gloucester, 
U. S. A. You can’t do geometry with them, but 
they’re great to climb over and such a bully 
red. I call this pretty punk, eh, Phil? ” 

“ Well, John,” laughed Mrs. Pitt, “ you will 
have to admit that you never saw rocks like 
these at Gloucester, or anywhere else — such a 
lot of pillars, all made up of joints or layers 
fitted closely together. They do remind one of 
geometrical figures.” 

“ The one I’m standing on has six sides,” 
Barbara discovered. “ What’s that? A hex- 
agon? ” 

“ Mine’s seven-sided, I think,” said Philip, 
stooping over for a careful examination. 

‘ ‘ H’m! ” said John; “ mine’s got nine. Now, 
what d’you think of that? Yes, Betty, I did 
count carefully.” 

“ Mine has five, like Mrs. Pitt’s,” added his 
sister. 

“ Most of them are either five, six, or seven- 
sided,” said Mrs. Pitt, “ but a few have four, 
eight, or nine sides, and just one is a triangle. 
How many pillars do you suppose there are in 
all? About forty thousand! Fancy that! Of 
course the most curious feature is that of their 
different layers, each from about a foot to two 
feet deep. The cracks can be plainly seen, but 
the pieces fit so neatly that there’s scarcely 


242 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

any space between. It’s really no wonder that 
people come from all over the world to see these 
columns, so unlike most rocks.” 

They clambered over the slippery tops of the 
pillars until they came to a high pile of them, 
near the water’s edge. Here there is a Wishing 
Chair, its seat, arms, and back formed by the 
polished pillars. Every one sits in this chair 
and silently makes his wish, feeling sure that 
it will come true. 

“ Aw! I can’t think of any more wishes! ” 
said John. “ Used ’em all up over at the well. 
It ’s rot, anyway ! Come on down to the water, 
Phil. It’s great, the way it dashes up! ” 

By sitting in the Wishing Chair several min- 
utes, her eyes tightly shut, Betty managed to 
think of another wish. Then, looking around 
her again, she said: “ It is just as if a giant 
had built it, isn’t it? It’s a lot like those rocks 
at Fingal’s Cave, where we were last summer. 
What’s the story about this, Mrs. Pitt? John, 
come on back! There’s going to be a story! ” 

4 4 Well, Finn MacCool, champion of all Ire- 
land, built the Causeway so that a boasting 
Scotch giant, who disliked swimming, could 
come over and fight him. Yes, J ohn, the Cause- 
way once reached across the Irish Sea, and 
ended at Fingal’s Cave, so the stories tell us. 
The Scotch giant came over to Erin and was 
promptly overcome by the bold Finn. 










IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


243 


“ Will yon rest here a few minutes while 
I tell you another of Finn’s experiences? He 
once left his work at the Causeway and went 
home to spend a few days with his wife, Oonah, 
on the top of Knockmany Hill. Although Finn 
was doubtless a devoted husband, there was an- 
other reason why he went home this time. He 
had heard that the only giant in the world he 
was afraid of was coming to seek him at the 
Causeway. This giant, Cuchulain, had a thun- 
derbolt, flattened by one blow of his fist, which 
he carried about with him to show to his ene- 
mies; and this was the reason why Finn was 
continually dodging Cuchulain. After two or 
three pleasant days spent at home, Finn told 
his wife of his fear that Cuchulain would fol- 
low him there, but Oonah seemed not at all 
troubled and made Finn promise to leave every- 
thing to her. Acting promptly, she borrowed 
several iron griddles from her neighbors and 
baked them into as many cakes, to be set be- 
fore the strange giant. 

“ When Cuchulain was seen approaching 
Knockmany Hill, on the following day, Oonah 
bundled Finn into the huge family cradle, ex- 
acted his promise not to speak, and went out 
to meet Cuchulain. They had some conversa- 
tion at the door, Mrs. MacCool telling the 
stranger that her husband had gone to the 
Causeway to seek out a certain giant desirous 


244 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

of putting his strength to the test. At this, 
Cuehulain declared himself to be the giant who 
had been wanting to meet Finn for the past year. 
Oonah then asked a favor of Cuehulain, — that 
he would undertake a little job which Finn had 
not found time for before his departure. To 
see how strong her husband’s enemy was, Mrs. 
MacCool asked him to tear away a great crag 
of rock and bring her water from the spring 
underneath. Difficult as this was, Cuehulain 
succeeded in making a great cleft in the rock, 
since known as Lumford’s Glen. 

“ After that, Cuehulain was invited inside 
and offered food, — the cakes especially pre- 
pared by Mrs. MacCool ; but this was more than 
he was equal to, — the devouring of cakes with 
iron centers. Mrs. MacCool expressed her sur- 
prise at his not enjoying them, and, offering one 
to the baby in the cradle, remarked upon 
the way in which Finn’s infant son enjoyed 
them. ’ ’ 

“ Say! ” interrupted John. “ Did Finn eat 
it, iron and all? ” 

“ Hush, John,” cried Betty. “ Of course 
that one was a plain cake, without any iron in 
it.” 

“ At this Cuehulain secretly thanked fortune 
that he had escaped the father of such an in- 
fant, and soon he asked if he might look at 
the baby and feel its teeth. Mrs. MacCool natu- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


245 


rally assented, urging Cuchulain to put his hand 
far back into the baby’s mouth, his best teeth 
being there. Quick as a flash, Finn bit oft the 
middle finger of Cuchulain’s hand, upon which, 
in some mysterious way, his strength depended. 
Then Finn jumped out of the cradle and killed 
Cuchulain in short order. And for this great 
victory he was beholden to his clever wife, 
Oonah.” 

When the story was finished, they all ran 
to watch a boat in which four visitors were be- 
ing tossed about, evidently too uncomfortable 
to enjoy the places of interest which the guides 
were pointing out. It was an exciting moment 
when they attempted to land on the Causeway 
rocks. The waves were high, and the rowers 
had to choose just the right moment for coming 
close to shore. As soon as one leaped from 
the boat, a great wave came and carried it away. 
A second time it approached, and this time 
the men managed to land the two ladies, who 
were just able to scramble over the rocks in 
time to escape another wave. 

“ No, thank you ! ” exclaimed Betty, with em- 
phasis. “ I don’t want to go out in a boat 
here. It would be much worse than that awful 
day at Killarney.” 

They explored one or two of the caves and 
climbed about among the rocks, some of the 
formations being so very like walls and towers 


2 46 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

built with human hands, that it is not to be 
wondered at that the men on one of the ships 
of the Spanish Armada mistook them for tur- 
rets of Dunluce Castle. As a result, this ship 
ran ashore, only a few of the crew escaped, and 
two hundred and fifty Spanish sailors lie 
drowned in the bay, called Port-na-Spania. 

Mrs. Pitt led the way towards the east, fol- 
lowing a narrow path by the shore. Sometimes 
the great gray rocks were surrounded by bits 
of sandy soil in which grew hardy sea pinks, 
or a tuft or two of daisies ; sometimes the rocks 
rose high in gigantic cliffs, taking many strange 
shapes. Mrs. Pitt showed them the Giant’s 
Organ, the Giant’s Loom, his Theater, Pulpit, 
Bagpipes, Ball-alley, Granny; in fact, every- 
thing an exacting giant could wish for. 

It would take several days to inspect every 
feature of the Little Causeway, Middle Cause- 
way, and Great Causeway. Towards noon our 
party felt tired and were glad to turn back 
towards the hotel. 

“ That’s called ‘ Sheep Island,’ ” remarked 
Mrs. Pitt, “ that little one you see, just there. 
No, look farther around to your right, Bar- 
bara. Just twelve sheep can be pastured on 
it, they say. If there are thirteen sheep, they 
all starve, and if there are only eleven, they die 
from over-eating. Not far away is Rathlin 
Island, 4 like an Irish stockinge the toe of which 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


247 

pointeth to the main lande ’ ; but yon will see 
that far better from Ballycastle. ,, 

Before luncheon Mrs. Pitt telephoned to Port- 
rush for a motor-car, which drove up to the 
hotel door about two o’clock to take them to 
Ballycastle, by the beautiful coast road. The 
Irish sun had smiled upon them for many days ; 
they had found it uncomfortably warm for 
walking, but a brisk breeze was now blowing 
as they sped along the high cliffs. The land was 
so deliciously fresh and green, and the water 
so blue far out and so white with spray near 
the shore! They left the motor-car once to 
watch a man race over the dangerous hanging- 
bridge which crosses a deep fissure at Carrick- 
a-rede (they all saw it except Betty, who could 
not bring herself to look) ; then they rode con- 
tentedly on to old Ballycastle. Sure enough, 
there lay Rathlin Island, directly opposite the 
town. 

“ It is supposed that it was on Rathlin that 
Robert Bruce watched the persevering spider 
and learned his valuable lesson/ , observed Mrs. 
Pitt. “ Didn’t you know that Bruce sought 
refuge on Rathlin when it was too dangerous 
for him in Scotland? No, Betty, I’m afraid we 
couldn’t go out to the island. The sea is quite 
disgustingly rough, they say. Strange things 
happen on and near Rathlin. One man believed 
that he saw a company of armed men going 


248 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

through their exercises on the beach; every 
morning a woman used to see a large fleet of 
ships sailing up the channel, between Rathlin 
and the mainland ; and some believe that a green 
mystery island rises out of the sea every seven 
years. All these things disappear as suddenly 
as they appear, but the peasants have never 
held the fairies responsible for them. Oh, no, 
it is always the 4 Grey Man of the North 9 who 
is blamed; no one has ever seen him, no one 
knows who or what he is, but many weird things 
has he brought about. Remind me, if you like, 
and this evening I’ll read you a pretty poem 
about Rathlin.” 

So, after the two boys had tried their luck 
fishing in Ballycastle waters, when dinner was 
finished and it had grown cool enough to sit 
pleasantly near a fire, Mrs. Pitt read them Luke 
Aylmer Conolly’s poem, 44 The Enchanted 
Island.” 

11 1 To Rathlin’s Isle I chanced to sail 

When summer breezes softly blew, 

And there I heard so sweet a tale 
That oft I wished it could be true. 

“ * They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, 

And hushed is ev’ry turbid swell, 

A mermaid rises from the deep 
And sweetly tunes her magic shell. 

u 4 And while she plays, rock, dell and cave, 

In dying falls the sound retain, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


249 


As if some choral spirits gave 
Their aid to swell her witching strain. 

“ * Then summoned by that dulcet note, 

Uprising to th’ admiring view, 

A fairy island seems to float 

With tints of many a gorgeous hue. 

“ 1 And glittering fanes, and lofty towers, 

All on this fairy isle are seen: 

And waving trees, and shady bowers, 

With more than mortal verdure green. 

u 1 And as it moves, the western sky 

Glows with a thousand varying rays; 

And the calm sea, tinged with each dye, 

Seems like a golden flood of haze. 

“ 1 They also say, if earth or stone 

From verdant Erin’s hallowed land 
Were on this magic island thrown, 

Forever fixed it then would stand. 

“ 1 But when for this some little boat 
In silence ventures from the shore, 

The mermaid sinks — hushed is the note — 

The fairy isle is seen no more.’ 

“ When I was standing on the cliff, just be- 
fore dinner/ ’ continued Mrs. Pitt musingly, “ I 
almost fancied I heard the unearthly music of 
that mermaid; or perhaps it came from those 
four white swans, the enchanted children of Lir. 
A cruel stepmother, waving her fairy wand over 
them, changed them into this form and pro- 
nounced the following doom upon them : ‘ Three 


250 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

hundred years they are to spend on the waters 
of Lake Derryvaragh, three hundred on the 
Straits of Moyle, (off these rocks here, between 
Ireland and Scotland,) and three hundred on 
the Atlantic by Erris and Inishglory. After 
that, “ when the woman of the South is mated 
with the man of the North,” the enchantment 
is to have an end. ’ The four children, who were 
now swans, retained their speech; many peo- 
ple came to converse with them and hear them 
sing as they floated on the smooth waters of 
the lough. But the time came for them to go 
to the stormy Straits of Moyle, and finally, to 
the wide Atlantic, and here they suffered much, 
sometimes becoming separated so that the sis- 
ter swan could not protect her little brothers 
any longer, her feathers being frozen. This is 
the song that Fionuala, the king’s daughter, 
sang; it is given here in my book, and I’ll read 
it to you: 

“ 1 Cruel to us was Aoif e 

Who played her magic upon us, 

And drove us out on the water — 

Four wonderful snow-white swans. 

“ ‘ Our bath is the frothing brine, 

Our bays the red rocks guard; 

For mead at our father’s table 
We drink of the salt, blue sea. 

“ ‘ Three sons and a single daughter, 

In clefts of the cold rocks dwelling, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


2 5 1 


The hard rocks, cruel to mortals — 

We are full of keening to-night! ’ 

“ When Princess Devca from the sonth was 
married to a Connacht chief named Lairgnen, 
the swans turned again into human beings ; but 
they were withered, white-haired, sad old peo- 
ple and they wished only to die. This is the 
story of the unfortunate Children of Lir. Are 
you too sleepy to hear one more tale, associated 
with this northern part of Ireland? It’s about 
Deirdre (pronounced Deerdree), 6 the Irish 
Helen,’ beautiful as was Helen of Troy, and it’s 
called the ‘ Fate of the Sons of Usna.’ But, 
no ! I caught two of you yawning. ’ ’ 

“ But we’re not a bit sleepy, Mrs. Pitt — 
truly,” urged Betty. “ Please tell us.” 

“ Very well. Among the lords of Ulster, 
there was one named Felim son of Dali, who 
invited the king and many heroes of the Red 
Branch to a great feast. (The Red Branch 
Knights, John, were selected members of a sort 
of ‘ heroic militia ’ which flourished in the first 
century; they went to the palace Emain, near 
Armagh, every year for training, and their 
greatest commander was Cuchulain. They 
sometimes acted as escort to the king.) While 
all were making merry over the roasted flesh, 
wheaten cakes, and Greek wine, a messenger 
came to tell Felim that a daughter had just 
been born to him. A Druid, being asked to read 


252 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

the child’s future in the stars, declared: ‘ The 
infant shall be fairest among the women of 
Erin, and shall wed a king, but because of her 
shall death and ruin come upon the Province 
of Ulster.’ The warriors were greatly dis- 
turbed at this, and would have put the baby to 
death had not King Conor promised to avert 
this doom by himself marrying the child when 
she should be old enough. So the little Deir- 
dre went, with her nurse, Levarcam, to live in 
a strong dun, or fort, in the center of a dense 
forest; and never was she to be permitted to 
see a young man. This was by order of King 
Conor. 

“ One day, when the time for the marriage 
of King Conor and Deirdre was drawing near, 
the girl looked out from her rath, and on the 
pure white snow, which had fallen in the night, 
she saw several drops of blood. As the girl 
stared, a raven came down and sipped the blood. 
Turning to Levarcam, the girl suddenly cried : 
‘ Oh, nurse, such, and not like Conor, would be 
the man that I would love — his hair like the 
raven’s wing, and his cheek the hue of blood, 
and his skin as white as snow.’ Much aston- 
ished, the nurse said she had exactly described 
a member of King Conor’s household, Naisi, 
son of Usna and knight of the Red Branch ; and, 
after much entreating, the nurse agreed to bring 
him to see Deirdre. You can imagine that her 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


253 


beauty won the young warrior, who, to save her 
from the old king, ran away with her and the 
nurse to Scotland; and Naisi ’s two brothers 
went, too. They managed to evade all pursuit 
by living in the woods of Glen Etive, where they 
contentedly hunted and fished. 

“ All this time King Conor had said nothing 
but he had known, through his spies, all that 
had befallen Deirdre and her companions. Fi- 
nally he sent over a messenger to beg them 
to return, promising that all would be forgiven. 
They were glad at the thought of returning 
to Erin in safety, all but Deirdre who foresaw 
evil and wished to stay on in Scotland. She 
remembered all the loved landmarks: the glen 
where they fished, that where they hunted the 
stag, another where they slept. ‘ Never,’ she 
said, 4 would I quit Alba, were it not that Naisi 
sailed thence in his ship. ’ And so they traveled 
back to Emain, where Deirdre and the Sons of 
Usna were lodged in the Red Branch House. 
Still King Conor had not seen Deirdre ; he had 
only been told that in the wilds of Scotland 
she had lost all her beauty. Doubting this fact, 
Conor sent a messenger to the Red Branch 
House on purpose to see Deirdre, but the man 
found the place bolted and barred for the night. 
Not wishing to disappoint his master, he 
climbed upon a ladder and looked in through 
an upper window, and so he saw Naisi playing 


254 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


chess with the most beautiful woman in the 
world. Unfortunately Naisi caught sight of this 
eavesdropper, whereupon he threw a chessman 
at him, putting out his eye. There followed 
much disaster, in which the same Druid played 
his part. All turned against Naisi and his 
brothers, who were finally ordered to be slain. 
A Norse captive at length was persuaded to 
grasp Naisi *s magic sword, striking off the 
heads of the sons of Usna with one sweep. The 
king kept Deirdre with him for a year, during 
which time she never once smiled. In the end, 
she flung herself from a chariot, dashing her 
head against a rock. It is said that from her 
grave and from Naisi ’s two yew trees grew, and 
their branches became so intertwined over the 
church at Armagh that no one could force them 
apart. But in another version of the tale, the 
Sons of Usna met their fate at Rathlin Island, 
a cairn of stones being piled over their bodies 
and Deirdre ’s. And that is why I associate the 
legend with this northern coast, near Bally cas- 
tle. Now to bed — all of you! ” 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


IN AND NEAR BELFAST 

‘ i A toy shop ! ’ ’ repeated Betty wonderingly. 
1 i What kind of a toy shop ? ’ ’ 

4 4 You’ll see in a few moments,” answered 
Mrs. Pitt, beginning to gather up various ar- 
ticles from the floor of the motor-car. “ This 
tiny village is an odd place to find such a thing, 
now, isn’t it? But I’m quite sure you’ll like 
it. There’s Cushendall’s Curfew Tower; it 
was once part of an old fort, hut now they ring 
bells there several times during the day and cur- 
few at nine o’clock every night.” 

“ What’s that about 4 Curfew shall not ring 
to-night ’? ” 

“ Rings at nine, does it? ” cried John. 
“ Well, I guess there isn’t much doing after 
that, so you turn in! ” 

Cushendall is a quaint place in a valley be- 
tween high mountains, with the sea lying blue 
below. It is so far from railways and tourist 
routes that few besides motorists and walkers 
find it. Its approach affords glorious scenery, 
and the little town itself has great charm. In 
the center is the vine-covered tower ; the houses 

255 


2 56 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

are small and old, huddling together for com- 
pany and fronting directly on the street. 

As for the neighborhood, every ruined cas- 
tle, every oddly shaped rock, every valley and 
hill has its fascinating legend. Ossian is said 
to have lived and sung here, and to be buried 
on Slemish Mountain close by, where St. Pat- 
rick herded cattle and swine as a boy, ear- 
nestly praying for more light to carry on his 
great mission to his country. Ossian, son of 
Finn, lived until three hundred years after 
the other “ Fianna ” had died, spending the 
intervening time in “ Tir-nan-og, ’ ’ where he 
married a king’s daughter, Niam of the Golden 
Hair. When Ossian came back to earth, in 
the time of St. Patrick, he was broken-hearted 
to find all his friends gone. Perhaps he had 
cause to lament: 

" No hero now where heroes hurled, — 

Long this night the clouds delay — 

No man like me, in all the world, 

Alone with grief, and gray: 

u Long this night the clouds delay — 

I raise their grave cam, stone on stone, 

For Finn and Fianna passed away — 

I, Ossian, left alone.” 

All accounts of the doings of Finn MacCool 
and his men were told St. Patrick by Ossian, so 



v. vwmauu..* •>• .;., 




.-.-■S' 


Sewi 


- 


The little town itself has great charms. — Page 255. 






















































































































IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


257 


we like to believe. These tales were all care- 
fully set down, but so interesting did they prove 
that St. Patrick had two-thirds of them de- 
stroyed, fearing that the people would do noth- 
ing but listen to them. 

But Betty’s toy shop must not be forgotten. 
It was a freshly painted, new house on the out- 
skirts of the town, with a gay awning over- 
hanging its tiny show window. After one glance 
inside, they opened the door, setting a bell to 
tinkling merrily. Within, a Dublin woman 
greeted them pleasantly and hastened to show 
them her wares. 

“ Look at this adorable jaunting-car! ” cried 
Betty, taking up a perfect model, made of oak. 
“ It’s exactly like the real ones; even the seats 
can be turned up, and there’s the well where 
you put your handbags. I must have it to show 
to everybody at home ! Nobody ever knows just 
how a real, live jaunting-car looks. I didn’t! 
Oh, what’s this one, with peat in it! ” 

This slide car was explained to them as the 
model of one in use in the mountains for car- 
rying peat down into the valley. It has no 
wheels, the ends of the shafts dragging along 
the ground at the back, and the basket-like body 
being fastened to them. It is too delightfully 
primitive to be seen often in twentieth-century 
Ireland. There was also a low-backed car of 
the kind sometimes seen on the quays in Dub- 


258 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

lin, and many pretty souvenirs made of bog oak 
and copper. 

4 4 The boys of the town make them, mostly 
in winter,” said the woman. “ But now the 
greater number of them work in the iron mines, 
up Parkmore way. Perhaps you’ll have seen 
them bringing the ore down to Cushendall here, 
where it’s sent away in ships. What’s that! 
Does the young gentlemen wish for this cane, 
carved from a single piece of bog oak! Ah, 
it’s a fine specimen! And about that model 
Irish car — I should apologize for asking the 
young lady five and sixpence for it, but it 
took an invalid lad many weeks to carve it 
out. ’ ’ 

A large boxful of toys occupied a seat be- 
side Betty when the party left Cushendall, by 
the old “ long car ” which traverses the coast 
to Larne. After the motoring of that morning, 
it seemed a strangely slow way of traveling. 
It was very warm in the sun and some of the 
party were forced to sit with their backs to 
the ocean; but they were reconciled to a few 
discomforts by their interest in this mode of 
Irish travel, and by the beauties of the country 
which its leisurely progress gave them an op- 
portunity to enjoy. Because of a red sand 
found in the neighborhood, the soil has a terra- 
cotta tinge, contrasting with the deep blue of 
sea and sky. Late in the afternoon Larne was 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


259 

reached, and they changed into the train for 
Belfast. 

66 We’ll not pass through Antrim,” remarked 
Mrs. Pitt, “ and I am afraid I shall not have 
a chance to take you to see Shane’s Castle on 
broad Lough Neagh. It is the seat of the 
O’Neils, ancient kings of Ulster. I couldn’t 
begin to tell you their history; the family has 
had a long and wonderful one ! There was Hugh 
O’Neil, first Earl of Tyrone, who wrote his sig- 
nature, ‘ Myself O’Neil,’ and was at one time 
a favorite of Queen Elizabeth at her English 
court. Perhaps he was most distinguished of 
his family. You’ve noticed the Red Hand of 
Ulster, cognizance of the O’Neils? One sees it 
a good deal, here in the north. Tradition ac- 
counts for the red hand by this grewsome story : 
In an early conquest of Ireland, it was decreed 
that whoever touched the land first should pos- 
sess it. An O’Neil, wishing to make sure of 
his rights, stood up in the boat, cut off his right 
hand with an ax, and threw it ashore. ’ ’ 

When they emerged from the station at Bel- 
fast, they almost lost Barbara in the crowd, 
and Mrs. Pitt had to shout a warning to John, 
who was just in front of a starting motor-car, 
so unused were they to a big city. In despair, 
Mrs. Pitt bundled them all into a cab, and they 
drove through electric-lighted streets to the 
hotel. 


26 o JOHN AND BETTY’S 

Although Belfast was one of the “ good towns 
and strongholds ’ 9 destroyed by Edward Bruce 
in 1315, it now gives one no idea of its great 
age. Even when Mr. and Mrs. Hall wrote their 
famous book of Irish travel, in the early nine- 
teenth century, they found Belfast a “ clean 
Manchester.” It is remarkably clean, consid- 
ering its many factories, and it presents a pros- 
perous air of bustle and business not met with 
in any other Irish city. Except for the double- 
decked trams, the view from the Boyal Avenue 
Hotel differs little from that in any small 
American city ; and even the noise seems Ameri- 
can. Rosemary Street, running along one side 
of the hotel, is far from as pastoral as its name. 
Every few moments, even during the night, 
trucks or station omnibuses rumble by ; an end- 
less procession of trams clang their bells and 
motor-cars honk and toot. 

‘ ‘ I don ’t like it very well, ’ ’ said Betty, stand- 
ing by her window on their first morning. 4 4 It 
isn’t a bit Irish. Why, I don’t see a single pig 
or donkey, and the old women don’t wear 
shawls.” 

John was the first one to go down to break- 
fast, and when the others joined him he was 
full of important news. 

4 4 I say, Philip ! There ’s a big White Star 
liner to be launched this morning. Isn’t that 
bully? We can go, can’t we, Mrs. Pitt? It’s 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


261 


at Queen’s Island, the waiter said. I’ll get a 
paper and we’ll find out more.” 

The Belfast trams, their upper stories par- 
tially glassed in, are usually painted bright red, 
and are so covered with gay signs that a 
stranger is hard pressed to know where they 
are going. The natives identify them by num- 
ber, but all a visitor’s eyes light upon is a 
huge sign of “ Nestle ’s Milk,” or of some break- 
fast food, or soap. 

“ These all seem to be going to ‘ Van Hou- 
ten’s Cocoa,’ ” Betty laughed, glancing at sev- 
eral trams bearing these words in huge white 
letters on a deep blue ground extending the 
length of one side. 

“ This next one’s jammed like all the rest! ” 
cried John. “ Everybody’s going! Let’s get 
aboard! ” 

They managed to climb on and to find stand- 
ing-room, but the tram was crowded as is 
seldom permitted in Great Britain ; people even 
perched on the steps leading to the upper deck. 
Upon arrival at Queen’s Island, John at- 
tempted to jump off the front platform, where 
the step is raised purposely to prevent this 
disobedience of the company’s rule. The scan- 
dalized motorman remonstrated, but the Yan- 
kee boy was too quick for him; and away they 
hurried with the crowd. 

“ If I had known about this a day or two 


262 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

earlier, I could have had some tickets,’ ’ Mrs. 
Pitt said, when they had reached the end of 
a long pier. “ We’ll not be able to see much 
from here. Can you jump up on that pile of 
rope, Betty, you and Barbara? ” 

Thousands of workingmen and women stood 
in the hot sun to watch the launching. Broad 
Scotch was being spoken on all sides, at which 
Mrs. Pitt showed her delight. The crowd was 
very orderly, waiting patiently for some time 
with only a distant glimpse of the ship’s great 
hull to repay them. Small boys were perched 
upon almost every possible vantage point, but 
John discovered one unused lamp-post and 
“ shinned ” up it. From this position he kept 
the others informed of every movement on the 
big ship. 

“ They’re going to fire the rockets now,” he 
cried, at last. “ There they go! Now for the 
signal! ” 

A shot was fired and then, slowly, majestic- 
ally, the ship began to move. Every one stood 
on tiptoe, breathless and thrilled. Gradually it 
gained speed in slipping down its ‘ ‘ ways ’ ’ un- 
til, smoothly and gently, it struck the water, 
bounding forward into the stream. There was 
a moment of stillness ; then the crowd burst into 
cheers. 

4 4 How funny that it didn’t splash! ” was all 
that Betty said, as they walked away. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 263 

“ Fifteen thousand tons! ” muttered John. 
“ That’s some boat! How’d you like to sail 
on her, Phil? ” 

Later that day the party visited the York 
Street Flax Spinning Company’s linen mills, 
the largest in the world. Here both spinning 
and weaving are done, but bleaching is carried 
on by big companies outside the city of Bel- 
fast, where long strips of linen can be seen 
stretched on the green grass. Throughout the 
building the heat is intense and the noise of 
machinery makes it impossible for a guide to 
make explanations en route. Therefore, the 
strange processes in different rooms seemed 
rather mysterious. 

They saw flax being combed, thousands and 
thousands of times, through teeth of different 
sizes. There are queer, little silky bundles of 
flax, with a twist at the bottom to hold the 
strands together. After the combing, it goes 
over a giant roller which has previously been 
passed across a sort of thick mucilage. The flax 
is strengthened by running it through boiling 
water. Some women spend all their time tying 
the fine threads together, after the machines 
have been stopped and reversed to release 
broken ends. The most interesting room was 
the one in which designs were woven into 
tablecloths. By a strange, hinged cardboard 
arrangement, hanging from the top of the loom, 


264 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

the threads are moved back and forth, making 
letters and patterns. 

Betty stood spellbound before one big loom 
where the words, ‘ ‘ White Star Steamship Com- 
pany,” were gradually appearing on a huge 
tablecloth. 

“ Perhaps it’s for the boat they launched 
this morning,” she said, smiling up at Mrs. 
Pitt, who shook her head; she could not hear 
what Betty said. 

Most of the workers in the mills are women. 
Some of them appear to be in good health. 
Obviously they are the ones who have not been 
long at work there, for others are pallid and 
their eyes look bad. Because of the heat, their 
sleeves are rolled up and their collars turned 
in. Young girls and boys run errands and re- 
place the spools. 

“ How young can the girls enter the mills? ” 
Mrs. Pitt asked their guide, as the party was 
leaving. 

u We employ them at twelve years of age, 
but until they are fourteen they must go every 
other day to the school kept by the company. 
If you care to cross the street, madam, you can 
see the laundry. In that annex the hemming 
of handkerchiefs and all machine embroidery 
are done, too.” 

While they were at luncheon that day, Mrs. 
Pitt said: “ Although you find Belfast too mod- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


2 65 

ern and not Irish enough to suit you, children, 
I want you to understand what a remarkable 
place it is and what a fine thing it would be 
for Ireland to have more such cities. It is a 
wonderful example of rapid and substantial 
growth. In 1720 all the houses on one of Bel- 
fast^ main streets were thatched with straw. 
It was not until the early years of the nine- 
teenth century that the place began to grow, and 
it has kept on growing ever since. I believe 
that the American Revolution, cutting off com- 
merce between our country and yours, is sup- 
posed to have given the first stimulus to the 
trade of Belfast. The linen trade is an ancient 
one, however, for a yellow linen shirt was the 
characteristic costume of the native Irish. 
1 Erin’s yellow vesture ’ was seen even as late 
as Queen Elizabeth’s reign, when certain chief- 
tains of northern Ireland wore it at the Eng- 
lish court.” 

“ Our cook lived in Ireland once,” volun- 
teered Betty; “ and she taught me a riddle 
about the flax and how it looks when it’s grow- 
ing. This was it : 

“ 1 There’s a garden that I ken, 

Full of little gentlemen, 

Little caps of blue they wear, 

And green ribbons very fair.”’ 

During their stay at Belfast they went out 
to Carrickfergus, where they saw a fine old cas- 


266 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

tie with an enormous tower and thick walls; 
but, alas ! mounted knights in armor no longer 
clatter about its courtyard. It is now used as 
an arsenal, and, although red-coated soldiers 
are to be seen and two guns are in position on 
the outer wall, it does not look very formidable. 
At the end of a long pier, near the castle, is 
the rock on which King William of England 
is said to have landed. From the waters of 
Belfast Lough, J ohn Paul J ones sailed in com- 
mand of his American vessel, the Ranger. 
When Belfast was only a small garrison town, 
it was “ dependent ” on Carrickfergus, at that 
time as prosperous as it is now sleepy. It con- 
tains much of interest, including St. Nicholas’ 
church, dating from 1164; more time might have 
been spent there had Mrs. Pitt not been travel- 
ing with restless young people, who were grow- 
ing just a wee bit tired of churches. 

At Betty’s request, they hunted down the 
Giant’s Ring, far out in Belfast’s suburbs, a 
huge circle of earth, slightly broken here and 
there, with an ancient cromlech in the center 
of its basin-like inclosure. They took tram 
rides in many directions and found pretty sub- 
urban residences, set in trees and flowers. 

Their stay in Belfast would have been pleas- 
anter had it not been for the effort of trying 
to sleep amid the confusion of Rosemary Street, 
and the noisy drilling of the Orangemen. 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 267 

Looking down from his window on the first 
evening, J ohn had cried : 6 6 Who in thunder are 
those fellows! And what are they giving 
ns! ” 

4 ‘ They are getting ready for their great cele- 
bration on the twelfth of July, the anniversary 
of the Battle of the Boyne. 

“ It was in May, 1795, that the Orange so- 
cieties originated and were named for William 
of Orange, just when there was a general Irish 
uprising against English authority. Knowing 
what was in progress in Ireland, the French 
were planning an attack upon the Irish coast, 
and the Catholics of Ulster (the Defenders), 
anticipating French control and -wishing the 
connection between Ireland and England to be 
abolished, took the oath to be ‘ faithful to the 
United Nations of France and Ireland.’ The 
Protestants, who still wished to keep up rela- 
tions with England, formed the various Orange 
societies. Previously they had been known as 
4 Peep o’ Day Boys,’ and for this reason: It 
was then contrary to law for a Catholic to keep 
firearms, so, obviously, they were only to be 
obtained by stealth or force. The Catholics, 
therefore, went about the country, seizing arms, 
and the Protestants organized small parties 
who endeavored to prevent their getting them. 
From the early morning hours in which this 
warfare was most frequently carried on, the 


268 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


Protestants became known as the ‘ Peep o 9 Day 
Boys. ’ It was a kind of religious war, you see. 
There were battles fought — the most famous 
being the Battle of the Diamond — and there 
were outrages and bloodshed. For about fifty 
years, then, the different lodges of the ‘ Orange 
Institutions ’ flourished, and many powerful 
Protestants joined them. The Orange Society 
had developed an elaborate system, with pass- 
words and secret forms and ceremonies, when 
it was dissolved in 1836 by Act of Parliament. 
Orangemen have always paid high honor to 
William HI., Prince of Orange. That is why 
present-day Orangemen still celebrate the Bat- 
tle of the Boyne anniversary, with songs and 
cheers and parades, with fife and drum.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH ST. PATRICK 

“ Marble streets! It’s like the Bible, isn’t 
it? ” 

“ Well, we are told that the heavenly streets 
are paved with gold and precious stones, Betty ; 
but it is quite extraordinary enough to find a 
city on earth paved with marble, like Armagh, 
isn’t it? Some of the older houses are made 
of marble, too. No, John, come this way. 
That’s the new Catholic cathedral on that hill. 
My word! it is warm! ” 

St. Patrick founded one of his earliest 
churches, with an adjoining school, at Armagh, 
probably about the year 455, and ever since 
then it has been the ecclesiastical center of Ire- 
land. In 1552 it was decided that the Arch- 
bishop of Dublin might call himself “ Primate 
of Ireland,” while he of Armagh remained 
“ Primate of All Ireland.” But there are few 
relics of antiquity in the present-day city, 
proud though its history has been ; the narrow 
marble streets are now dirty and crowded, and 
there are all the ordinary inns, shops, markets, 
and humble dwellings. Even the modern-look- 

269 


270 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

in g edifice on the hill-top scarcely recalls the 
glories which Armagh once knew. 

“ Oh, do come inside this nice yard with 
the shade trees. At least that looks com- 
fortable and cool and old.” 

Mrs. Pitt entered the cathedral gate, turn- 
ing her back resolutely upon a row of distress- 
ingly gay, new houses of red brick. 

They dropped upon the grass to rest after 
the climb up a steep hill, and then some one 
remembered that Brian Boru is believed to be 
buried in the vicinity of that church, in an 
unmarked grave. 

44 You slept in his bed at Waterford, didn’t 
you, Betty? ” giggled Barbara. 

44 Yes,” said Betty reminiscently. 4 4 Poor 
Brian! They killed him at the door of his 
tent so horribly, they might at least have re- 
membered the place where they buried him ! ’ ’ 

44 Of course, Armagh Cathedral, like many 
others we have seen, is an old Catholic church, 
converted to the use of the Irish Protestant 
Church,” said Mrs. Pitt. 44 It has been re- 
built a great many times. The Danes destroyed 
the city and its cathedral, which also seems to 
have been burnt often, — seventeen times, I be- 
lieve. Several primates have restored it, the 
last having been Lord John George Beresford, 
who left the cathedral as we now see it. His 
sister was the Lady Anne of Eleanor Alexan- 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


271 


der's book, ‘ Lady Anne's Walk.' Part of the 
archbishop's demesne was her garden and there 
she dreamed over her past or future, or lis- 
tened to the chatter of old ‘ Tummus.' None of 
you are old enough to enjoy her, but some day 
you, at least, will find her delightful, Betty." 

As they left the shady cathedral yard and 
went down the steps leading to the street below, 
Mrs. Pitt reminded them that Emain Macha, 
one of the royal palaces of prehistoric times, 
had stood upon a rath only two miles from 
Armagh. 

“ It was built by Macha of the Golden Hair, 
wife of the king of Ulster, and for six hundred 
years it was the residence of the Ulster kings. 
Here flourished the Red Branch Knights of the 
first century and the Fena, or Fianna, of the 
third century, that band of heroes established by 
Cormac MacArt to protect the throne. It was 
there that Deirdre was lodged, too, in the house 
of the Red Branch Knights. But Emania is 
only a barren hill now, like Tara; its glories 
belong to Ireland's splendid past." Once again 
Mrs. Pitt caught herself regretting prosaic 
progress. 

On the way back to Belfast there was a thun- 
der storm and Mrs. Pitt, seeing that Betty was 
not fond of thunder and lightning, offered to 
tell a story from her seemingly unlimited 
stock. 


272 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 

u It’s about the origin of Cuchulain’s name, 
one of the leaders of the Fianna and the might- 
iest of all Erin’s heroes,” she began. “ Do any 
of you know the story? No? Well, Cuchulain’s 
name was not always Cuchulain; he was called 
Setanta until one eventful day during his stay 
at King Conor’s court, where he had been sent 
to be taught with the sons of other princes and 
chieftains. On one occasion King Conor and 
his nobles were going to a feast which was to 
be given in the dun of a rich smith, named 
Cullan. Setanta was enjoying a game of hurley 
so much that, when the time came for the caval- 
cade to start, he begged to be permitted to fol- 
low later. The royal party arrived about night- 
fall, and soon made merry over the feast which 
Cullan had set before them; meanwhile, the 
smith let loose his great dog to guard the en- 
trance, a dog so fierce and powerful that he 
was regarded as sufficient protection against 
any foe. Amid the music and laughter, no one 
remembered Setanta until the hound was heard 
baying fiercely outside the door. The howls 
that told of the combat suddenly ceased as the 
nobles rushed forth to save the boy. Stopping 
short in amazement, they saw him calmly stand- 
ing with his foot on the dead hound’s neck. 
Full of admiration for his bravery and strength, 
they raised him to their shoulders and bore 
him in triumph to the feast. Although Cullan, 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


273 


their host, applauded with the rest, he was very 
sorrowful over the loss of his faithful dog. 
When Setanta learned this, he said : 

“ ‘ Give me a whelp of that hound, oh, Cul 
lan, and I will train him to be all to you that 
his sire was. And until then give me shield 
and spear and I will myself guard your house ; 
never hound guarded it better than I will.’ 

‘ ‘ All the knights cheered this generous offer, 
and, then and there, they changed his name from 
Setanta to Cuchulain, the Hound of Cullan. 
There now, Betty, the storm is quite over.” 
But Betty had been too absorbed in the hero 
of Emain Macha to fear the lightning. 

From trains in the north of Ireland one sees 
orchards and fields of flax, factories, and busy 
towns. It is a far more cheerful country than 
the south. They particularly noticed the influ- 
ence of Scotch progressiveness and thrift on 
their way to Downpatrick. 

“ Our last trip in Ireland! ” sighed Betty. 
“ 0 dear! Think how soon we’ll be back at 
Gloucester, John, — just as if nothing had hap- 
pened! ” 

But John’s regrets were fewer. After all, 
one could not spend all one’s time sightseeing, 
he argued, muttering something about the fel- 
lows at home and baseball. It would be good 
to get a bat in his hands again. A captain ought 
to be loyal to his team. 


274 JOHN AND BETTY'S 

“ By the way, Mrs. Pitt,’' he inquired, 
11 what was that game, hurley, that Cuchulain 
played? " 

‘ ‘ A very ancient game, J ohn, something like 
your field hockey. It is played with a carved 
wooden stick and a ball which, I have read, used 
to bear a silver plate inscribed with the motto, 
4 Fair play is good play.' No doubt that would 
amuse you Americans, who, of course, play fair 
without a warning to do so. The players — 
sometimes there are a great many of them 
— divide into two sides, standing with their 
hurleys crossed. Some one tosses up the ball 
and then the players raise their sticks, trying 
to hit it as it comes down. There are two goals, 
and boys to guard them. You know the rest, 
I'm quite sure. I'm told one may see hurley 
played in the parks of New York, on a Sun- 
day. ' ' 

‘ 4 It sounds pretty tame to a baseball fan like 
me," was John's comment. 

Then they reached Downpatrick station and 
started to walk up to the cathedral, coats over 
their arms, for June was unusually warm that 
year. 

“ Anybody can have an arm of coats," sug- 
gested John, relieving Mrs. Pitt of hers. 
“ Isn't that as good as a coat of arms? " 

Nobody laughed, until Philip said, “ Why, no, 
of course it isn't the same thing," when Betty 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


275 

gave an appreciative chuckle, and Mrs. Pitt 
added, “ Oh, you are slow, Philip! ” 

In the shade of some big, fine trees, stand- 
ing on a hill-top, as the Armagh cathedral does, 
is that of Downpatrick, also one of St. Pat- 
rick’s early foundations. Granting that it was 
founded by the saint in 440, the church has a 
clearly defined record of fifteen centuries. 

“ 1 In Down three saints one grave do fill, 

Brigid, Patrick, and Columb-kille ” 

chanted Mrs. Pitt, as they went up the gravel 
path towards a huge, rough bowlder placed 
there a few years ago to commemorate, if not to 
mark, the grave of the great St. Patrick. On 
it is cut an early Celtic cross, and the word 
“ Patric ” in Celtic characters. 

“ Then they aren’t even sure that it is St. 
Patrick’s grave? ” inquired Betty. “ 0 dear! 
They don’t seem to be sure of anything, do 
they? ” 

“ They can’t be sure about the exact spot, 
you see, but many ancient records say that the 
saint was buried at Downpatrick, in or near 
the cathedral. It is interesting, isn’t it, that 
St. Columba’s body should have been brought 
from Iona and buried in the same grave? And 
the 1 Annals of the Four Masters ’ say that in 
525, ‘ on the 1st of February, St. Brigid died, 
and was interred in Dunn, in the same tomb 


27 6 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

with St. Patrick, with great honor and ven- 
eration.’ ” 

It was cool and comfortable in the church- 
yard, where a pleasant breeze was blowing and 
birds were singing overhead. Between the 
branches of the trees they had glimpses of the 
pretty valley below. Betty found a clump of 
tiny shamrocks, in the very shadow of St. Pat- 
rick’s tomb. Altogether it seemed the proper 
place to linger and talk about Ireland’s favor- 
ite saint. 

“ Of course, he wasn’t really Irish,” observed 
Barbara. ‘ ‘ He was born in England, wasn ’t he, 
Mother? ” 

“ No, Barbara, he was not. The English can- 
not claim all the saints ! No one knows, or ever 
will know surely, where St. Patrick was born; 
but most authorities believe it was either near 
Dumbarton, Scotland, or in the west of Gaul, 
part of France. When he was a boy of about 
sixteen, he was kidnaped and brought to Ire- 
land, where he worked as a slave for six years. 
As you know, his master, Milchu, sent him to 
herd sheep and swine on Slemish Mountain, not 
far from Cushendall. In his own words he tells 
how he forgot to be lonesome by turning his 
mind to God. ‘ I was daily employed tending 
flocks ; and I prayed frequently during the day, 
and the love of God was more and more enkin- 
dled in my heart, my fear and faith were in- 











* 



* 



















































/ 























































IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


277 


creased, and my spirit was stirred; so much 
so that in a single day, I poured ont my pray- 
ers a hundred times, and nearly as often in the 
night. Nay, even in the woods and mountains 
I remained, and rose before the dawn to my 
prayer, in frost and snow and rain ; neither did 
I suffer any injury from it, nor did I yield to 
any slothfulness, such as I now experience ; for 
the spirit of the Lord was fervent within me.’ 
Yes, Betty, it’s all written here in Joyce’s 
‘ Concise History of Ireland.’ You may read 
it later, and much more, if you like.” 

After pausing while the cathedral bell rang 
for afternoon service, Mrs. Pitt went on : 

“ At the end of six hard years among the 
pagans, St. Patrick made his escape and went 
to the Continent, studying under two great 
teachers, St. Martin of Tours and St. Germain 
at Auxerre. But he always remembered his mis- 
sion to the pagan Irish, and everything he did 
was but a preparation for that work. He once 
had a strange dream in which he seemed to hear 
the Irish calling to him, — ‘ we entreat thee, oh, 
holy youth, to come and still walk amongst us.’ 
Hearing that Palladius, a bishop whom the Pope 
had sent to convert the Irish, had lately died, 
Patrick felt more and more his call to go to 
that country. He was consecrated bishop in 
Gaul, and straightway set sail for Ireland with 
his companions. They landed near Wicklow, 


278 JOHN AND BETTY’S 

but the natives drove them away from the land, 
so they sailed farther north, at length coming 
ashore here in County Down. The chief was 
at first hostile, but was calmed by the saint’s 
appearance; the holy men were received hos- 
pitably and they made many converts. Dicho, 
the native chief, turned to Christianity and, as 
there was no church, he gave St. Patrick a 
sabhall (saul), or barn, in which to worship. 
Ever since the place has been known as Saul; 
it is very near Downpatrick and is famous as 
the site of St. Patrick’s first church. 

“ You all know a little about how St. Patrick 
went over the country, making converts and 
building churches everywhere. Palladius had 
perhaps introduced Christianity into Ireland, 
but it was St. Patrick who, by his own holy, 
useful life, established the faith permanently. 
Many of the places we have visited are asso- 
ciated with incidents in the saint’s life ; we know 
that he was at Tara and Cashel, and that he 
spent Lent on the top of Croagh Patrick. I 
wish I had time to tell you some of the beau- 
tiful stories of his life — how he converted King 
Loghaire and his daughters at Tara, for in- 
stance. In the ancient 1 Book of Armagh,’ there 
is such a pretty version of it. I must read you 
just a little, as -it is given here in my favorite 
‘ Lady Anne’s Walk.’ The angry scene be- 
tween St. Patrick on one side, and the Druids 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


279 


and their king on the other, was at an end; 
the Christians, clothed in white, were resting 
near a clear well of water when Ethne the Fair, 
and Feidelen the Ruddy, King Loghaire’s 
daughters, came there to bathe. 

“ Ethne said: 

u 1 Tell us about the new God. 

u 1 Has he sons and daughters ? 

Has he gold and silver? 

“ 1 Is he beautiful ? 

“ ‘ Are his daughters dear and bounteous to the sons of 
the world? 

“ 1 How is he found? 

11 1 Is it in youth ? 

“ 1 Is it in age ? 

“ 1 Teach us most diligently how we may believe in the 
heavenly king/ 

‘ 1 And we can well imagine what answers the 
saint made, and how the king’s daughters be- 
came Christians, being baptized in the well. 
St. Patrick’s personality must in itself have 
been wonderful, for it appealed to children. 
There was a youth named Benen, or Benignus, 
in whose father’s house the saint was once en- 
tertained during a sudden storm. The boy be- 
came so attached to St. Patrick that he insisted 
upon following him as his disciple; years aft- 
erwards Benignus succeeded his master as 
Archbishop of Armagh. 

“ But to finish this long story, St. Patrick 


28 o 


IRISH HISTORY VISIT 


died at Saul, the scene of his first conversion, 
probably about 465. Upon hearing the news, 
many journeyed here to do honor to the dead 
saint; the ceremonies lasted twelve days and 
twelve nights, and so many torches blazed that 
the night became as bright as the day. Then, 
according to some versions of the story, they 
hitched two oxen to the saint’s coffin and, when 
the animals stopped on the hill at Downpatrick, 
there the saint was buried. And that’s why we 
are here to-day, talking about St. Patrick and 
reverencing his memory.” 

It was almost time for the Belfast train to 
leave, so they collected their belongings and 
retraced their steps down the hill. 

“ I shall always love the shamrock now,” 
said Betty gently, ‘ ‘ because of St. Patrick, you 
know. I used to laugh sometimes when people 
wore green, but now I’m going to wear it my- 
self all I can.” 

The next day, when the party crossed from 
Ireland to England, it was noticed that John 
wore a brilliant green tie, while Betty had 
pinned to her dress the sprig of shamrock from 
St. Patrick’s grave. 


THE END 


INDEX 


Aberdeen, Lord Lieutenant, 
61 

Achill Island, 226 
Adare, 169 
Ailell, King, 184 
Antrim, 259 

Ard-ri, The, 71, 73, 226 
Armagh, 269, 270, 271, 278, 
279 

Athlone, 168, 182, 183, 184 
Avonmore, The, 80 

Balbriggan, 62 
Ballybunion, 163, 165 
Ballycastle, 247, 248, 254 
Bally maearberry Castle, 162 
Ballyshannon, 227, 228 
Banshees, 7, 221, 222, 223 
Bantry, 128, 129 
Battle of the Diamond, 268 
Belfast, 116, 255, 259, 260, 
261, 264, 265, 266, 271, 280 
Belleek, 227, 231 
Ben Bulben, 216, 219 
Beresford, Lord John George, 
270 

Birr, 180 

Black Valley, The (Coom 
Dhuv), 149 

Blackwater, The, 125, 126 
Blarney, 100, 107, 109, 110, 
112 

Blarney Castle, 102, 107, 108, 
109, 110 

Blarney Stone, 108, 112, 113 
Book of Kells, 26, 27 
Boyne, Battle of the, 67, 168, 
267, 268 


Brian Boru, 23, 37, 59, 98, 
226, 270 

Bruce, Edward, 48, 260 
Bundoran, 227 
Burke, Edmund, 26 

Caha Mountains, 130 
Cahirciveen, 158 
Carolan, 221 
Carrick-a-Rede, 247 
Carrickfergus, 265, 266 
Carrick-on-Shannon, 216 
Carrigaphooka Castle, 131 
Cashel, 92, 93, 94, 95, 278 
Charles II, 32, 33, 36 
Christ Church Cathedral, 48, 
51 55 

Claddagh, The, 188, 193, 194 
Clew Bay, 214 
Clonmacnoise, 64 
Clontarf, 23, 31 
Conn of the Hundred Battles, 
King, 22, 72 
Connaught, 183 
Connemara, 188, 189, 198, 

201, 214, 215, 225, 235 
Conor, King, 252, 253, 272 
Cork, 13, 15, 16, 18, 99, 102, 
104, 105, 106, 107, 115, 
156 

Cormac MacArt, 72, 96, 271 
Corrib River, The, 188 
Croagh Patrick, 214, 215, 278 
Cromwell, Oliver, 67, 77, 125, 
133 

Cross of Cong, 59 
Cuchulain, 183, 243T, 244, 

251, 272, 273, 274 


281 


282 


INDEX 


Curragh, The, 20 
Cushendall, 255, 258, 276 

Dangan House, 70 
Dargle, River, 76 
De Burgo, Richard, 189 
Deirdre, 252, 253, 254 
Dermot MacMurrough, 49 
Derryvaragh, Lake, 250 
Diarmid, 44 
Dingle Bay, 158 
Dinis Island, 151 
Donegal, 223, 224, 225, 226, 
227 

Doneraile, 100 
Donny brook, 35 
Down, County, 278 
Downpatrick, 274, 275, 278, 
280 

Drogheda, 63, 66, 67 
Drumcliff, 219 

Dublin, 17, 18, 20, 21, 22, 23, 
24, 27, 34, 36, 46, 48, 50, 
53, 75, 256, 257, 269 
Dublin Castle, 51 
Dunboy, 28 

Dunluce Castle, 236, 246 
Dunraven, Lord, 169 

Eagle’s Nest Mountain, 150 
Edgeworth, Maria, 184 
Elizabeth, Queen, 25, 26, 54, 
259, 265 

Ely, Princes of, 176 
Emain Macha, 271, 273 

Farranfore Junction, 163 
Fena (Fianna), The, 271, 272 
Ffranckfort Castle, 170, 171, 
172, 173, 174 
Fingal, 183 

Finn MacCool, 44, 87, 242, 
243, 244, 245, 256 

Galway, 183, 188, 189, 190, 
191, 192, 194, 195 
Gap of Dunloe, 148, 149, 150 
Giant’s Causeway, The, 236, 


237, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243, 
245 

Giant’s Ring, The, 266 
Glassen, 187 
Glena Bay, 152 
Glendalough, 78, 80, 81, 83, 
84, 87 

Glengariff, 130, 131, 132, 133, 
134, 135 

Goban Saor, 194, 195, 196 
Goldsmith, Oliver, 24, 26, 

184, 187, 188 
Goold’s Cross, 92, 93, 97 
Gregory, Lady, 194, 195 
“ Grey Man of the North, 
The,” 248 
Groomsport, 240 

Henry II., 49 
Henry VIII., 54 
Holy Cross Abbey, 97, 98 
Howth, 35, 36, 38, 39, 41, 
43 

Innisfallen, 141, 145, 146, 

147 

James II., 67, 168 

Kenmare, 135, 137, 138 
Kerry, County, 13, 136, 143 
Kilcolman Castle, 99 
Kildare, 19 

Kildare, Earl of, 19, 57 
Killarney, 138, 141, 142, 143, 
147, 152, 153, 220, 245 
Killery Bay, 201, 205 
King John’s Castle, 167 
King’s Hospital of Oxman- 
town, 32, 33 
Knockmany Hill, 243 
Knockmealdown Mountains, 
126 

Knocknarea Mountain, 219 
Kylemore Lake, 202 

Larne, 258 
Laune, River, 148 


INDEX 283 


Leap Castle, 173, 174, 176, 
179, 180 

Lee River, 16, 102, 104 
Leenane, 201, 205, 207, 210, 
212, 225 
Leinster, 49 

Leprehaun, The, 7, 203, 204, 
218 

Lever, Charles, 36 
Liffey, River, 21, 22, 30, 76 
Limerick, 92, 156, 165, 167, 
168, 169 

Lismore Castle, 126 
Lissoy, 184 
Listowel, 163, 165 
Loch Ree, 183, 184 
Loghaire, King, 279 
Londonderry ( “ Derry ” ) , 232, 
233, 236 

Lough Foyle, 232 
Lusk, 62 

Lynch’s Castle, 190 

MacCarthy, Cormac, the 
Strong, 108, 112 
MacCarthy s, The, 162 
MacGillicuddy’s Reeks, 130, 
138, 140, 148, 149 
MacKinnons, The, 240 
MaeMurrough, Dermot, 49 
Malachy, King of Meath, 167 
Manchester, Duke of, 202, 213 
Mathew, Father, 106, 107 
Mayo, County, 215 
Meath, 167 

Monasterboice, 63, 64, 66, 81 
Monkstown, 15 
Moore, Thomas, 59 
Muckross Abbey, 152, 153 
Munster, 94, 95, 96 
Myrtle Grove, 121, 122 

Nelson Pillar, The, 35 

O’Brien, Murkertagh, 79, 95 
O’Carrolls, The, 174, 176, 177 
O’Connell, Daniel, 60, 158 
O’Donnell, Owen Roe, 54 


O’Donoghue, 143, 144, 145, 
150, 152, 220 
O’Flaherties, The, 189 
O’Malley, Grace, 41 
O’Neil, Hugh, 259 
O’Neills, The, 226 
Oonah, 243, 244, 245 
Orange Society, 267, 268 
Ormond, Earl of, 57 
Ossian, 183, 220, 256 
O’Sullivans, The, 223 
O’Toole, King, 81, 82, 83 

Palladius, 277 
Pallas, 184 

“ Peep o’ Day Boys,” 267, 268 
Phoenix Park, 36, 51 
Phouka (Puck), 39, 40, 76, 77, 
78 

Portrush, 236 
Prout, Father, 53, 102 

Quaker Island, 183 
Queen’s Island, 261 
Queen Mab (Meav, Maive), 
183, 184, 219 

Queenstown, 13, 14, 156, 189 

Raleigh, Sir Walter, 114, 121, 
122, 123, 124, 125 
Rathlin Island, 246, 247, 248, 
254 

Recess, 198, 199, 201 
Red Branch Knights, The, 271 
Richard I., 168 
Roberts, Lord, 91 
Roscrea, 174, 179, 180 
Ross Castle, 142, 144, 146 

Sackville Street, 36 
St. Audoen’s Church, 46, 47, 
48 

St. Brigit, 19, 20, 275 
St. Columba, 226, 227 
St. Columba’s Cathedral, 232 
St. Finian, 146 
St. Finn Bar, Cathedral of, 
103, 104 


284 


INDEX 


St. Kevin, 81, 83, 84, 85 
St. Mary’s Church, 118, 120, 
122 

St. Nessan, 39 
St. Nicholas’ Church, 191 
St. Patrick, 19, 55, 64, 70, 71, 
72, 73, 95, 96, 149, 214, 256, 
257, 269, 275, 276, 277, 278, 
279, 280 

St. Patrick’s Cathedral, 55, 
56, 57 

St. Ruadhan, 73 
Sarsfield, 168 
Saul, 280 

Shan don Church, 102 
Shannon, River, 167, 182 
Sheep Island, 246 
“ Silken Thomas,” 54 
Shillelagh, 79 
Sigurd, Earl, 37, 38 
Skerries, 62 
Slane, 70 

Slemish Mountain, 256 
Sligo, 215, 216, 219 
Spenser, Edmund, 99, 122, 
123, 124 

Steevens’s Hospital, 59 
Stephen’s Green Park, 24 
Straits of Moyle, The, 250 
Strongbow, 48, 49, 50, 89, 90, 
120, 125 


Swift, Jonathan, 26, 56 
Swords, 61 

Tara, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 271 
Thurles, 97 

Tipperary, County, 92, 97 
Tir-nan-og, 220, 221, 256 
Tomies Mountains, The, 148 
Tore Lake, 151 
Tory Island, 226 
Tralee, 163 

Trinity College, 24, 25, 28, 
29, 30 

Tyrconnel, General, 32 

Ulster, 251, 252, 259, 267, 271 

Valentia, 156, 157, 158, 159, 
160, 162, 163 

Waterford, 88, 89, 90, 91, 270 
Wellington, Duke of, 70 
Westport, 214 
Wicklow, 277 
Wicklow, County, 75, 79 
William III., 29, 30, 67, 168, 
182, 266, 267, 268 
William Rufus, 79 
Wishing Chair, The, 242 

Youghal, 63, 114, 116, 117, 
118, 119, 122, 123, 125 


JOHN AND BETTY’S ENGLISH 
HISTORY VISIT 

By MARGARET WILLIAITSON 

Illustrated from photographs Net $ 1.25 ; Postpaid, $ 1.37 


A BROTHER and sister are sent to England to 
be shown the leading places of historic 
interest in company with an English brother and 
sister of their own ages, and under the wise and 
sensible direction of the mother of the latter. 
Every one will enjoy reading of the jolly trips 
taken by the four children, and their guide, who 
proves to be the best of entertainers and travel- 
ing companions, and a great deal of useful 
knowledge is gained in so pleasant a way that no 
one thinks he has been doing more than getting 
acquainted with some very nice young friends. 

“ With all the fascination of a story the account of 
these visits to places of interest grips the mind and 
charms the heart, and next to an actual visit, we recom- 
mend the reading of this delightful volume by the old as well as the young.” 
— Universalist Leader, 

JOHN AND BETTY’S SCOTCH 
HISTORY VISIT 

By MARGARET WILLIAMSON 

Fully illustrated from photographs Net $ 1.25 ; Postpaid, $ 1.37 


liJOHNAND BETTY'S 

1 « ENGLISH^ 
US HISTORY VISIT 





MARGARET WILLIAMSON 



."VSX-X-i.*' 7 "' 


JOHN AND BETTY’S 
SCOTCH $ 
HISTORY VISIT 


RS. PITT, the excellent mother of John and 
A Betty’s companions, continues as “guide, 
philosopher, and friend,” and a very pleasant 
companion as well. They begin in London by 
seeing the Coronation of George V. and Queen 
Mary. Soon, however, they are in Scotland, 
to revel in its wealth of natural beauty and 
romantic history. One wonders at the ability of 
the author to give so much of value in so fresh, 
simple, and enjoyable a way. 

“ Its history is real and its descriptions of scenes 
are fascinating. It will delight boys and girls equally, 
and it covers in a charming way the romance and the 
natural beauty of Scotland.” — St. Louis Post-Dispatch. 

“ There will be no trouble to get boys and girls 
to read history in such an entertaining volume as this.” — N. Y. Herald. 






MARGARET WILLIAMSON 


For sale by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt 
of price by the publishers 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 


Makers of England Series 

MARCH TAPPAN, Ph.D. 

T -> vR. TAPP AN’S historical works have 
already become classics for the young, 
and well do they deserve it, with their enter- 
taining descriptions, perfect English, and 
historical value. Such books are the best 
that can be placed in the hands of children ; 
and the fact that while being instructive there 
is never a dull line is the highest commen- 
dation that can be offered. 

In the Days of Alfred the Great 

Cloth Fully illustrated Price $1.00 

In the Days of William the Conqueror 

, Cloth Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy Price $1.00 

In the Days of Queen Elizabeth 

Cloth Illustrated from famous paintings Price $1.00 

In the Days of Queen Victoria 

Cloth Illustrated from paintings and photographs Price $1.00 

M ISS TAPPAN reads her authorities 
intelligently and selects her material 
wisely, always having her young audience well 
in mind. She has a clear idea of the require- 
ments for interesting and stimulating young 
readers, and arousing in them a desire for fur- 
ther research. The entire series are admir- 
ably adapted to this end, and are warmly 
recommended to the attention of parents, 
teachers, and librarians. — “ Era ,” Philadel- 
phia , Pa. 



By EVA 



LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 

BOSTON 

























